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I WAS OVERWHEOIED BY THE SUFFOCATING ODOR OF INCENSE. 



VISIONS 

Tales from tHe Russian 


BY 

COUNT ILYA TOLSTOY 

AutHor of “Reminiscences of Tolstoy” 


Illustrated .by- 
Ossip Perelma y 



7 *> 

^'7 7 


IRcw î3orft 

JAMi:S B. POND 

1917 


i 



COPTBIGHT, 1917 
By JAMES B. POND 

Published March, 1917 




VAtL. BALLOU COMPANY 
•INdHAMTON AND NEW YORK 

©CI,A467313 


PEEFACE 


The stories in this volume have been trans- 
lated by different people. ‘ ‘ A War Vision ’ ’ was 
translated by William Eessnick; ^‘An Affair of 
Honor’’ and ‘^Too Late,” by Elbert Aidline; 
‘‘Without a Nose” and “The Little Green 
Stick,” by Nicholas Aleinikoff and “The Scarlet 
Bashlyks,” by Miss Eojansky. Thanks is due 
to Louis Weinberg for assistance in editing the 
translations. 



CONTENTS 


STORIES OP THE WAR 

P4QE 

The Little Nurse 3 

War Visions 27 

An Affair of Honor 41 

The Scarlet Bashlyks 57 

The Little Green Stick 65 

STORIES OP RUSSIAN LIFE 

Too Late 75 

One Scoundrel Less 113 

Without a Nose . . . • 141 

Cholera . 151 



STORIES OF THE WAR 


THE LITTLE NURSE 




THE LITTLE NUESE 


It had been an arduous day. Two operations 
took place in the morning, and toward the eve- 
ning, just before supper time, there came on 
wagons, direct from the battlefield, twenty- 
eight more seriously wounded. 

The hospital was, as usual, over-crowded ; the 
doctor cried out that he had no room for more 
patients. ‘‘All cots are taken.” However, to 
refuse them shelter would mean to expose the 
wounded over night to the mercy of the rain, 
and so they were finally taken in, washed, 
dressed with clean white bandages and put for 
the night in the “assorting” room, upon new 
linen mattresses thickly stuffed with fresh, 
sweetly smelling hay. 

When everything had been arranged and the 
nurses gathered for their evening meal, the 
wounded wanted to eat, for they had had noth- 
ing in their mouths for over twenty-four hours. 

The nurses ran to the kitchen, gathered up, 
everything that was there and handed to each 
patient a cutlet and a piece of stale brown bread. 
They themselves remained hungry, and as- 


4 


THE LITTLE NURSE 


sembling in their rooms satisfied their appe- 
tites with chocolate and tea biscuits. 

Chocolate with sisters of mercy stands for 
everything. One cannot imagine what a nurse 
would do if there were no chocolate in the world. 
When about to make a journey, she will never 
think of other provisions; she puts a bar of 
chocolate into her valise and considers herself 
fully supplied for several days. If seized with 
a sudden pang of hunger during relaxation from 
her labors, she will break off a piece of choco- 
late and eat it. Before going to sleep, tired, 
undressed, and unwashed, she will stoop down, 
draw out from under her bed her basket, and 
take a bit of chocolate, and so falls asleep with 
a pie sant taste in her mouth, contented and 
happy. 

Far be it from me, dear, pathetic toilers to 
make sport of your efforts. I recall with affec- 
tion, that little brown morsel in your clean, 
tender hands. To me that bit is the symbol of 
your spirit of self-sacrifice, of your boundless 
patience and love. I saw your work at the front 
and I take my hat off to you. 

The watch nurse for the night was Miss 
Zavialova, “Little Vera,’^ as she was called by 
her companions. 


THE LITTLE NURSE 5 


Before the war she had simply been a young 
lady who lived with her parents on their estate. 

Like all the young ladies of that period, she 
too, had been raving about Artzibashev’s nov- 
els, swallowed Sergius Gorodetsky, adored Bal- 
mont and wore a silken shawl of ^ ‘ tango color. 
As soon as she learned that the war had broken 
out she left the city, almost against the will of 
her parents, entered a training school, finished 
her course and enrolled as a civil nurse in the 
hospital erected at the expense of the local 
merchants. There she had stayed ever since. 

At first it was not easy for her to grow used 
to her new life. While at college she had been 
present at one serious operation, the amputation 
of a leg. She nearly fainted. She waægrow- 
ing pale and commenced to waver, when some 
one caught her arm ; and this touch was enough 
to make her remember in time that she must 
not display any weakness. She braced up, and 
even went quite close to the operating table. 

The surgeon just then lopped otf the leg and 
threw it into the washtub. The cold water 
splashed upon her apron and sprayed her face, 
and she had to leave the room to go and wash 
herself. She did not come back. For a whole 
hour she sat in the hallway and wept. 

She later saw other operations, more terri- 


6 


THE LITTLE NURSE 


ble still, but she could never forget that white 
leg with the big, crooked, dirty nails. 

Another vivid impression was engraved on 
her memory, that of a transport of wounded 
which she received in Kieff, at the freight depot, 
where a temporary feeding place had been 
established. Some crawled out of the cars un- 
aided — lame, with arms in slings, heads band- 
aged. The more seriously wounded were taken 
out from the railway cars on stretchers, and 
were carried into the large, long warehouse, 
where they were emptied onto the straw cov- 
ered floor. In one of the warehouses there 
were Russians, in the other Austrians. 

Little Vera brought them hot tea and gruel. 
While attending them, the thought came to her 
how dreadfully strange it was that these people 
should mutilate and cut up each other on pur- 
pose. 

Later when she got into the rut and became 
a professional, these thoughts ceased to agitate 
her mind. In her work she forgot to think, her 
nerves grew strong and her only anxiety was 
to do her duty in the best and quickest way so 
as to most ably serve the patients. Only occa- 
sionally, at night, when sleep would not come, 
was she gripped by the horror of human suffer- 
ing, and then she would pass long wakeful vigils, 


THE LITTLE NURSE 7 

with eyes wide open staring into space, while 
her heart wept and prayed. 

So it happened with her this night. 

She said good night to her companions, 
washed herself quickly, put on her soft felt 
slippers and, ascending the broad gravel stairs 
with noiseless step and gnawing heart, entered 
into the dimly lighted sick room. It smelled of 
drugs and human flesh. Many of the seriously 
wounded were still awake. On one of the cots, 
by the wall, there loomed the white figure of a 
wounded Austrian with a bandaged head, who 
rocked rhythmically to and fro on one place — 
like a bear in a cage, Vera thought. 

He was one of the wounded whose days were 
numbered. A few days ago his skull had been 
opened and a splinter extracted from his brain, 
and now serious inflammation was developing. 

Already he had lost all sense of reality. Last 
night he could still be spoken to, moved, band- 
aged. But now, he permitted no one to ap- 
proach him, and kept on screaming loudly and 
despairingly: ‘‘Ah ... ah,” as if he were 
being beaten or stabbed. 

“If only not to-night,” thought little Vera, 
casting a side glance at him and listening to his 
cries. 


8 


THE LITTLE NURSE 


Several men asked her for water; for some 
she herself lit cigarettes and put them into their 
mouths (she did that only at night, without the 
physician’s knowledge), adjusted the pillows 
under others, and so finally came to the door 
which opened into a small room where lay the 
only officer in the hospital, Ensign Nelidov. 

This officer, the favorite of the whole hospital, 
had lain there for a long time and was in a dam 
gerous condition. He had been wounded in the 
leg in a battle during the retreat of the Russians 
and was found unconscious by an Austrian re- 
connoitering detachment. 

To evade being taken prisoner, Nelidov 
feigned death. But the Austrian officer bent 
over him, saw that he was still alive and began 
to fire at him from his revolver. After the 
third bullet Nelidov still retained sufficient 
strength to rise and, putting his hand to his 
temple, remarked ‘‘Schiessen sie hier” (shoot 
here). Then the Austrian gave him a parting 
shot and went off without looking around. 

Nelidov was not picked up by our forces until 
the following day. When brought to the hospi- 
tal riddled with bullets, no one imagined he 
could live. 

Although he was better now, his condition was 
very critical, for his temperature rose every 


THE LITTLE NURSE 


9 


day without visible cause and there was danger 
of blood poisoning. It was especially bad that 
he grew nervous, excited, and continually 
jumped up and would not lie quiet. He said he 
was in good health and would presently leave 
the hospital and go back to war. 

Of course, no one told him of the danger of 
his condition. The physicians and the nurses 
exerted all their efforts to keep him quiet. For 
that reason when he could not often sleep of 
nights he was given small doses of morphine. 

When little Vera opened the door into his 
room she saw Nelidov sitting in his bed and 
smoking. 

‘^Why don’t you go to sleep? You know it 
harms you to be awake. I will give you an in- 
jection if you want it.” 

‘‘Come in; come in, Vera Pavlovna. I don’t 
want to sleep. I knew you’d keep watch to- 
night and I have been waiting for you. Only, 
for God’s sake, no medicine! I do not want to 
sleep. I slept during the day. My only desire 
is that you will be with me. Do not go away.”*^ 

“Will you promise to sleep then, yes?” 

“Yes, yes, I promise. Come here; sit down 
near me; say something. I love your voice so 
much. It is so soft and sympathetic.” 

“Did your leg hurt you to-day?” inquired 


10 


THE LITTLE NURSE 


Vera, while seating herself on the chair by the 
small white wooden table. 

‘‘No, don’t speak of my leg; it is not neces- 
sary. It is entirely uninteresting. Tell me 
something of yourself. How pale you are to- 
night. . . . What an interesting face you have ! 
How well your uniform becomes you ! I get so 
used to seeing you in this attire that I cannot 
picture you in ordinary garb, with uncovered 
hair. I often want to imagine how you looked 
when quite young. Do tell me, where did you 
live before the war; who are you; what are you? 
I want to know everything. ’ ’ 

“Why, that is not interesting.” 

“Why uninteresting? Perhaps after the 
war, if I remain alive, if I come out unscathed, 
— ^perhaps, then I will seek you out ; maybe you 
will permit me to hope. ...” 

“One must not think of what shall happen 
later. Just the same, you will forget me; be- 
sides, that is not important. ’ ’ 

“What, unimportant? If that be not impor- 
tant, what is important?” 

“Well, the important thing now is that you 
speedily recover, and you don’t want to listen 
and you do need sleep.” 

“I will not sleep. Do you really believe that 
I am in the least concerned about this silly 


THE LITTLE NURSE 


11 


thing, my health, my sleep? Can’t you under- 
stand that the fact that you sit here near me, 
in my room, so close to me, that I gaze at you 
and hear your voice — don’t you know that this 
is dearer to me than everything else in the 
world? My dear Yera Pavlovna, I don’t know 
what has happened to me to-day; forgive me! 
You know I have been silent all this time, have 
not said a word to you. But now I can’t keep 
quiet; I must speak.” 

‘‘There, you must not talk, dear. Lie down; 
let me take your temperature.” 

“Again temperature!” 

“Certainly. If you remain obdurate, I shall 
get angry and go. Lie down ; I will cover you 
up, and put in the thermometer.” 

“You are not angry now, are you?” 

“No. If you will only listen to me.” 

Yera took the thermometer from the table, 
shook it, looked at the mercury and, unbutton- 
ing the collar of his shirt, started, with trained 
hand, to adjust the instrument. 

“Let me; I can do it myself.” 

“Well, all right, do it yourself,” said little 
Yera in the tone of one appeasing a capricious 
child. She walked up to the head of his bed 
and straightened his pillow. 

Nelidov glanced over his head, caught her 


12 THE LITTLE NURSE 

hand and covered it with passionate, burning 
kisses. 

‘^Oh, my darling, forgive me! You are not 
angry 

‘‘Let go, dear; you must sleep. What a 
queer person you are ; just like a child, indeed ! ’ * 

“Kiss me, then, on the forehead as you would 
a child; kiss me. No harm in it for you, while 
I ... I shall be happy.’’ 

“And you will sleep?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then I will go?” 

“Yes.” 

Vera bent softly and guardedly touched his 
forehead with a dry, child’s kiss. How hot and 
moist his head felt on her lips ! 

“I will return shortly to see the thermometer. 
I must be going now,” she said, making an ef- 
fort to remain composed. With an even, silent 
tread she started out. 

“You will come back?” 

“Yes.” 

The big Austrian was still sitting and rock- 
ing. 

“Ah . . . ah . . . ah . . .” 

The air grew close. The men fell asleep and 
it was uncanny to hear the screams of the dying 


THE LITTLE NURSE 


13 


Austrian amidst the measured, even-tempered 
snoring of the armless, legless and shot-riddled 
sufferers reposing in forgetful slumber. As if 
they did not feel that right here, near them, a 
man was dying. The moans grew slower and 
weaker. 

A sudden, wild, insane shrill and then calmer, 
lower . . . 

‘‘Ah ... ah ... ah .. .^’ 

Little Vera sat down under the lamp and took 
out her watch. In ten minutes she must go to 
Nelidov and see his temperature. 

“Of course, he has fever heat. Otherwise he 
could not have talked such things, would not 
have kissed my hand. Why did he do it she 
said to herself. “At such moments, when there 
is so much suffering about, when death hovers 
in the air, — can one talk of loveT^ Then, as if 
in deciding, she thought, “It must be because 
he is lonesome, and it grows hard for him. 
How he has suffered, poor soul ! He needs rest, 
rest alone. 

“Ah ... ah ... ah .. .’^ 

“Sister, you had better do something for him 
or call in the warden,’^ she heard one of the 
wounded say from somewhere in a corner. 

“All right, I will return presently,’’ replied 
Vera, and, rising, went to see Nelidov. 


lé 


THE LITTLE NURSE 


The temperature showed 39. 

‘‘Thirty-one and five-tenths,’’ lied little 
Vera; “a small rise has taken place, though. 
Go to sleep now. I will visit you once more, to 
see if you are obedient.” 

“Vera Pavlovna, wait. Who is it that 
screams so awfully?” 

“A soldier, whose finger is swollen.” 

“Ah . . . ah,” came through the open door. 

Vera put the thermometer in its place, ar- 
ranged on her way, by force of habit, the bed- 
cover of the patient and went out again into the 
large hall. 

At first she thought of calling in the doctor, 
but remembering how he had grumbled at din- 
ner, because the nurse on duty had twice dis- 
turbed his sleep the night before for trivial 
cases, she desisted. 

“I will go myself. Perhaps he will let me 
come near him,” she decided, and, bravely, with 
firm foot stepped up to the cot. 

The wounded Austrian continued to toss 
about and it seemed as if he did not perceive 
her. Little Vera then came close behind him 
and placed her shoulder and arm under his 
head. The patient leaned against her with all 
his weight and continued to rock, swaying her 
with him. With each motion he rolled on her 


THE LITTLE NURSE 


15 


with his broad uncouth frame, and his cheek 
pressed upon her little body. She tried hard to 
support his weight and not to move lest he 
notice her presence. 

His breathing was violent and hot, and deep 
in his lungs little Vera could hear something 
that creaked and gurgled and grated. He 
screamed no more. He only groaned in slow, 
low sounds, his voice sinking lower, lower. 

‘‘Ah . . . ah . . .’’ 

Vera sat in such a manner that she could not 
see his eyes and it seemed to her that he was 
falling asleep. 

She herself grew numb because of the tension 
of her spirit and body; she almost stopped 
thinking. Time dragged, tormentingly slow. 
Somewhere a clock chimed. Once, then two 
times, then once again. . . . 

At times, amidst the snoring and whistled 
breathing there was audible here and there a 
rasping of teeth or the detached, incoherent 
sounds of delirium. Some quietly moaned. 
And in the corner of the wall there sat two in- 
terlocked white figures, silent, without words, 
closely pressed to each other and rocking back 
and forth. 

One — powerful, roughly hewn, desperately re- 
sisting the coming end : the other — ^little, phys- 


16 THE LITTLE NURSE . 

ically feeble, but full of spiritual strength and 
beauty. 

About three o’clock the agony set in. 

The patient swung violently from side to side 
several times and fell with all the weight of his 
mighty body upon the bed, dragging little Vera 
under him. She freed herself with great diffi- 
culty from under his shoulder, arranged his feet 
and ran for water. 

When she returned the patient was in his last 
struggles. His large dark eyes were unnatu- 
rally wide and stared with amazement into 
space, through the room, through the walls. 

Something surged in his breast. His breath 
became broken. 

‘‘There; now that’s the end,” thought little 
Vera, standing over him and involuntarily hold- 
ing her own breath. But life struggled on. 
When the man finally became still forever, the 
little white figure silently bent over his head 
and with two slender pink fingers closed his 
eyelids. 

They were still warm and soft. 

“He at least suffers no more,” thought little 
Vera. This was the customary consolation in 
such cases. 

“What, dead?” queried some one from the 


THE LITTLE NURSE 


IT 


opposite corner of the chamber. . . .‘‘Peace to 
his soul ! Many of our kind will have gone his 
way. I would gladly follow him, if God only 
willed. ’’ 

“Why, what’s the matter? You will recover 
and live,” retorted Vera. 

“What’s life without a leg? Do you call that 
life?” 

“Why don’t you go to sleep? Does some- 
thing bother you?” asked the nurse, approach- 
ing the bed. 

“Yes, thoughts bothered all the time I looked 
at you, sister, as you rocked with the Austrian. 
What ; are you spent ? ’ ’ 

“No, it’s nothing. I was so sorry for him; 
he suffered much. ’ ’ 

“It is a pity. He, too, was a human being. 
Sister, won’t you give me a cigarette?” 

“In a minute.” 

Having made her rounds once more, she came 
again to the door of Nelidov’s room and 
stopped, halted by indecision. 

“Shall I enter? Have I a right to listen to 
what he tells me? It were, perhaps, better to 
leave him alone if he is asleep. ’ ’ 

Deep in her heart something drew her to this 
room ; therefore, she wavered. 

After the horror just experienced, she wanted 


18 


THE LITTLE NURSE 


to hear a human voice ; she instinctively craved 
for the kindness of this dear, sensitive boy and 
she felt that just as he had needed her sisterly 
kiss so would she sacrifice all to be able to for- 
get herself, even for a second, in loving and 
being loved. But she dared not think of it. 

She had never yet really loved anybody. 
Formerly, when she lived with her parents, the 
thought of love never entered her mind. There 
was no time for love — life presented too many 
diversions. Here, however, on the background 
of human suffering, amidst the setting of hor- 
rors and mutual destruction of people, her soul 
lost its anchor and became chilled in perpetual 
fear; she wanted caresses and warmth. 

Sometimes at night, lying on her hard narrow 
cot, she would start from some terrible dream, 
light the candle and pass long, long hours, open- 
eyed and thinking. It even happened that she 
became at times so frightened that she would 
wake her companion-nurse. Miss Kornilova, 
nestle up to her, kiss her and treat her, sleepy 
as she was, to some chocolate. So clinging to 
the edge of her co-worker’s bed, she would slum- 
ber till morning. 

If some one had asked little Vera whether she 
were happy or not, she would certainly have re- 
plied, ‘‘Yes,” because here for the first time 


THE LITTLE NURSE 


19 


she learned that she was of help to people. 
Deep in her soul, however, there was a void that 
gnawed at her heart. 

Occasionally something stirred there. 

There was one Russian soldier who had been 
long confined in the hospital. He was nervous 
and permitted no one to dress his wound. The 
“little nurse’’ alone could manage him. When 
they wanted anything done for him they sent 
for her, and she went to “her” patient and 
helped him. And the “little one” loved him 
for it, as a mother would, and this feeling was 
dear to her and cheered her. 

In the same way she loved Nelidov. At least, 
so she thought, so it seemed to her, for she 
would not admit another feeling, a more selfish 
one ; she did not permit herself to think other- 
wise. 

Vera opened the door and peered in. Neli- 
dov was not asleep. He sat in the same posi- 
tion in which she had left him two hours ago. 

At first she felt a thrill of gladness at seeing 
him in such condition, but a closer glimpse of 
his inflamed, burning eyes frightened her, and 
her heart sank. Evidently the temperature of 
the patient had not fallen, but, on the contrary, 
was rising. 


20 


THE LITTLE NURSE 


‘‘At last!’^ he said, breathing heavily. 
“With my eyes riveted on the doorsill I have 
been waiting for you for three solid hours. 
Three hours I have been counting each second, 
listening for the slightest rustle. If you only 
knew what a torture it was ! And now you have 
come and will put me to sleep and doctor me 
with morphine. Therein you see the sacred 
duties of a nurse. You do not understand what 
I have lived through in these three hours with 
my eyes glued to that silly white door. I 
thought of everything. I lived through every- 
thing. I recalled how they were shooting me 
full of holes there, on the field. It was so fool- 
ish, ridiculous. Was life indeed necessary to 
me? That blockhead thought he was making 
game of me. And I showed him where to aim. 
But the dunce missed again. Then I thought 
that everything was the same to me, everything. 
Did I suffer then? Not the least bit. I have 
not suffered at all during this time. But now, 
these hours, I have been through the utmost tor- 
ture. That plank there, which you crossed — 
there it is, — it tormented me, and that door 
which would not open till now.’^ 

Nelidov reclined his head, put his hand 
across his eyes and heaved a deep sigh. 

She stood near his bed, like a culprit, with 


THE LITTLE NURSE 


21 


downcast eyes, and kept silent. Casually she 
leaned with her hand upon the small white table 
and her trembling made all the medicine bottles 
shake and rattle. She drew back her hand and 
seated herself on the chair by the wall. 

Nelidov bent over his emaciated knees and 
sought her eye. 

For a flitting instant she raised her lashes 
and then lowered them again, hiding her eyes. 

She thought they were moist. ^‘Bad.^^ 

‘‘Why did you come? Tell me, was it to doc- 
tor my body, to heal a wounded hero? . . . 
You think I needed that? Can’t you see that 
my soul aches? The soul alone? You kissed 
me this evening. No, it was not a kiss, — ^just 
a lip-touch, for the dead. Do you know what it 
has meant to me? Happiness, insane happi- 
ness. That alone has kept me alive all these 
three hours. I stared at that door there and 
waited, while you were outside nursing a 
kicker with a swollen finger. And I will wait 
again. I ask for nothing of you now. Later, 
after the war. Then will you let me come to 
you? Then — if I find you— you will not drive 
me away? You will let me love you? Tell me, 
do tell me, dear. Will you be mine? No, not 
simply mine; no, not that — want to love you 
forever. Will you be my wife?” 


22 


THE LITTLE NURSE 


Vera rose quietly from her seat, walked up to 
him and touched his forehead. Her face ap- 
peared composed; only her eyes looked differ- 
ent. 

came to see you because I feared you did 
not sleep. You see how disturbed you are. 
The doctor ordered in such cases not to fail to 
give you an injection.’^ 

‘‘Again, again the same thing. Oh, this is 
awful. Tell your doctor that he is a dolt. He 
doesn't know a thing. But you, why don't you 
understand? ... Do you believe in the immor- 
tality of the soul? Tell me that you believe, 
yes?" 

“Well, all right; I do." 

“And still you don't misunderstand? If I 
love you, what difference is there whether I 
live or die ? The love will remain. What I live 
through now will exist forever, won't it? It 
will, yes? And you here talk of medicine. A 
thing that no one needs, that will pass away. 
Do you wish my soul to live, and be ever happy? 
Do you? Yes? Tell me, do you? Then say 
that you love me, a little. A little bit, at least. 
Look at me; raise your lashes." 

“Will you let me, then, inject the morphine?" 

“Yes, yes, anything you want." 

“Very well, I love you." 


THE LITTLE NURSE 


23 


‘‘My darling.’^ . . . Nelidov bent over and 
wheezed through his nose. “Do with me what 
you please. Put me to sleep, stab me — ^it’s all 
the same to me, absolutely the same. Darling, 
you do not deceive me?” 

“No, no.” 

“Truly?” 

“Yes, truly, only don’t interfere now. I will 
prepare the syringe and make the injection. 
Lie quiet.” 

While little Vera busied herself with the 
preparations, Nelidov did not take his eyes off 
her, but watched her every movement. He 
gazed upon her long, well-shaped fingers; he 
watched those fingers as they moved gracefully 
and dexterously about their work — and he was 
happy. 

While she pricked his arm, he lay still and 
looked under her eyelashes. 

“Now, sleep.” 

“All right. Only let me kiss your hands. 
Both. They both labored for me. They are 
mine? Yes?” 

“Yes, yes. Sleep. Good-by, till morning.” 

In half an hour dawn broke. Little Vera 
came again to Nelidov ’s door, stood for a while 
undecided and then walked silently in. He was 
sound asleep. 


24 


THE LITTLE NURSE 


She neared the head of his bed and gave him 
a long tender kiss. 

Retracing her steps, she halted at the door, 
stopped, and wiped the tears from out her eyes. 

On the following day Nelidov got worse. 

‘‘Little Vera” would not leave his bed and 
kept watch over him. 

In the evening the patient lost his memory. 

After two days he passed away, without gain- 
ing consciousness. 


/ 


WAR VISIONS 



WAR VISIONS 


The war relics of devastated structures leave 
a sad and painful impression. 

Of the many deserted battlefields which I have 
seen during the two years passed ; of the name- 
less little graves faintly marked with little 
wooden crosses ; of the deserted trenches, noth- 
ing gave me so much food for deep and sad re- 
flection as the bare and lonely chimneys pro- 
jecting from amid piles of rubbish, melancholy 
blackened blots, the scattered remnants of 
domesticity; a smashed pail, a broken wheel, a 
binding of a torn book, the splinters of what 
was once a crib. 

To think that hereabout dwelt a family; that 
they were contented, and possibly happy. 

Those walls stripped and crumbled, what 
have they not seen I 

It always seems to me that an event having 
occurred at a given place, the memory of the 
occurrence attaches itself permanently to it. 
Whenever I happened to find myself in a local- 
ity in which some memorable events had taken 
27 


28 


WAR VISIONS 


place I could not think of those events without 
at the same time visualizing the surroundings 
amid which they occurred ; and the more recent 
the occurrence, the more vividly I can see the 
scene unfolding itself before my eyes. 

To think of the number of such impressions, 
which the present war has scattered. 

It is a film vivid and endless. 

I remember one such pile of ruins, which I 
saw not far from the road leading to Jaroslav. 
This ruin remained permanently fixed in my 
memory by reason of a horrible tale connected 
with it. 

Some time ago there lived on this farm a well- 
to-do Galician gardener. When the war broke 
out he was drafted into the army, and he went 
forth leaving behind him a wife and three small 
children. Shortly following his departure 
troops commenced appearing in the immediate 
neighborhood. At first there came small de- 
tachments, but these were quickly followed by 
more formidable bodies. In a short time lines 
of trenches were dug on both sides of the farm 
and real warfare begun. 

The firing was continuous. The family 
sought safety in the corners of their hut. They 
hid in the cellar under the heaps of beets and 
potatoes, but the children soon became accus- 


WAR VISIONS 29 

tomed to the hissing of bullets and lost all fear 
of them. 

The wounded soldiers, for the most part 
Austrians, began crawling towards the farm. 
There they bound up their wounds. The chil- 
dren looked on and sometimes gave aid, hold- 
ing with their little tiny fingers the blood soaked 
cotton or winding long and transparent band- 
ages around the wounded limbs. They became 
accustomed to the pain and the groans of the 
dying and in their naive and simple way ren- 
dered all the help of which they were capable. 

At night when darkness fell, and when firing 
from both sides would cease, the Austrians’ 
Sanitary Corps would come, place the wounded 
on long and unsteady stretchers and carry them 
to the rear. 

On one occasion the wounded sent the eldest 
girl to the pond to fetch some water. She 
stayed away for a long, long time. Later she 
was found lying on the grass with a bullet in 
her slender little shoulder. The pails lay near 
her empty. 

During the night she, too, was placed on a 
stretcher and was carried away. With her 
went the mother and the rest of the children. 
From that night on the farm remained for- 
saken. 


30 


WAR VISIONS 


The wounded, however, continued crawling 
to the hut, their numbers increasing from day 
to day. At times the sanitarians were not able 
to reach the farm and the wounded would lay 
for days at a stretch without aid. 

At the end of October a serious cholera epi- 
demic broke out among the Austrian troops. 
From that time on there appeared among those 
creeping towards the lonely farm large numbers 
of emaciated and pale blue forms — shadows of 
men. On reaching the farm they would fall on 
the straw, coiled up and groaning in their agony, 
most of them to remain lying there until si- 
lenced by everlasting sleep. 

There was no one to bury the bodies and they 
gradually began to decompose. 

On top of those bodies fell more and more. It 
became impossible to live amid these hellish sur- 
roundings, and if by chance some unfortunate 
wounded happened to come along most of them 
would leave the little hut and limp on, prefer- 
ring to dare the firing line rather than be stifled 
in this horrible atmosphere of death and stench. 

The engagements, which had lasted several 
weeks, became more and more stubborn. 

The trenches crept nearer and nearer until 


WAR VISIONS 31 

they resembled two live gigantic horns about to 
embrace each other. 

Presently one of the Austrian trenches came 
so near the farm that it became an obstacle to 
firing, and an order was issued to apply the 
torch to the encumbrance. 

It was quite a dangerous task. All knew 
through experience that the Russians keep a 
sharp lookout on all that transpires in the enemy 
line and do not allow to pass with impunity the 
least move on the part of the enemy. At night 
the men while smoking would lay low at the 
very base of the trench as the mere striking 
of a match sufficed to draw fire from the oppo- 
site lines. 

As a result of some faint noise or a slight 
movement vigorous firing would not infre- 
quently burst out all along the line and instead 
of getting the much needed rest, the soldiers 
would pass nights on their feet and remain 
fatigued from sleeplessness and nervous ex- 
ertion. 

A young second lieutenant, who had but re- 
cently begun his career of battle, volunteered to 
apply the torch. Being an ambitious man he 
was at the same time limited and cowardly. 
He always tried to conceal his cowardice under 


32 


WAR VISIONS 


a mask of arrogance, pushing his way forward 
whenever there was an opportunity to get into 
the spot light, and have his name mentioned. 
To brace himself, the officer emptied a large 
glass of spirits, and taking along one of the 
men left the cozy sheltered trench and began 
feeling his way across the fields. 

The night was dark as a grave and over the 
lowland of the garden hung a thick, milky fog. 
Their feet sank deep into the sticky, soaking 
mud. The men went slowly, bent to the ground 
and breathing heavily. 

They continued on their way without seeing 
anything ahead. Though the distance between 
them and their object was only two hundred 
yards it seemed to them from time to time as 
if they had lost their bearings and were going 
in the wrong direction. 

Soon they were aware of a heavy, suffocating 
smell ; the next moment there loomed up before 
their very eyes a somber silhouette of a build- 
ing. It stood there enveloped in fog. 

Reaching a comer of the house, the lieu- 
tenant stopped short, drew from his holster a 
big field revolver and whispered to the man to 
come near. 

It seemed that his main care was not that of 
carrying out the assumed task, but to hide con- 


WAR VISIONS 


38 


veniently from the Russian fire, and then slip 
off to the rear as soon as the house would catch 
fire. He figured that while the fiâmes were 
spreading over the structure and before they 
would reach the last wall, he could quietly and 
without the least danger to himself remain un- 
der shelter. 

As soon as the fire enveloped the structure 
and before the walls began crumbling, he would 
run back in time to avoid exposure by the con-» 
flagration. 

With this in view, he gave orders to his sub- 
ordinate to pile up straw on the side of the 
building directly facing the trenches. In the 
meantime the officer having taken shelter behind 
the opposite wall, lit a cigar and remained wait- 
ing for developments. 

A few moments of long and painful suspense 
followed. The poor lieutenant was in a state 
of frenzy. It was not the personal danger alone 
that now excited his imagination. He was tor- 
mented by the mystic fear of that which he was 
about to carry out. In the darkness he drew 
a somber sketch of all that was hidden behind 
the wall, the inevitable which he was to face 
within a few moments. 

How many of them are there? In what stage 
of decomposition? How do they lie? 


8é 


WAR VISIONS 


The officer suddenly recalled a conversation 
in the course of which some one told him that 
when the flames touched the dead in the crema- 
tory they coiled and twisted as if alive. In his 
excited imagination he quickly pictured a wild 
dance of the dead which was about to begin. 

‘‘But they will calm down/^ he thought, 
“after they are burned. As soon as burning 
flesh is scented I will run, and then let the Rus- 
sians shoot at them. All I have to do is to 
get away in time. If we were only done with 
this . . . Quick . . . Quick. . . 

At this moment he became aware of a pleasant 
smell of straw smoke and immediately after the 
opposite corner of the structure burst out into 
a bright flame. 

Almost simultaneously with the flash, firing 
began from the Russian trenches, and it seemed 
to the officer that a few bullets hissed nearby. 

The soldier succeeded in pouring a great 
quantity of kerosene into the interior of the 
house. The fire spread with unusual swiftness. 
In two minutes the structure was all ablaze. 

The officer stood at the open door watching 
curiously the interior of the main room. Scat- 
tered all over the floor there lay contorted and 
twisted forms. They lay in irregular heaps. 
It was an appalling and gruesome sight. 


WAR VISIONS 


85 


From somewhere protruded some one^s long 
bare legs, near the wall lingered a lonely arm. 
Curled, swollen and slightly lifted, it hung in 
a threatening posture. From under a tattered 
old military coat projected a thick brush of 
black-blue hair, and at some distance leaning on 
the stone there half set a mighty figure of a 
stately corpse. The majestic body was bent 
in gloom, two huge rough and calloused hands 
supporting a big head. 

Suddenly it seemed to the lieutenant as if he 
heard some one groan. The sound became more 
and more audible, coming nearer and nearer; 
one voice, a second, somebody called, a cry rang 
out, and suddenly pandemonium broke loose. 
Air rending cries came from all sides and men 
began to drop one by one, falling about the 
officer and stretching at his feet. Some fell 
straight from the ceiling to the earthen floor, 
others came creeping down the ladder; they 
dropped into the flames, choking and writhing 
in deadly agony. 

The officer, half dead from fright, drew his 
revolver and opened fire. He ceased firing, 
when his supply of bullets gave out. His am- 
munition gone, the lieutenant threw down the 
weapon and ran. No one will ever know the 
number of unfortunates he thus killed. All I 


86 


WAR VISIONS 


know is that of all the men hiding in the garret 
of that farm only one was saved. It was he 
who told me this terrible tale. He did this while 
lying in one of our hospitals. According to his 
version, there were at the time in the building 
a great number of wounded soldiers, who came 
there during the last engagement. When fire 
was set to the house, they endeavored to get 
down. All of them perished. Some were 
burned alive, while others were shot to death 
by their own officer. Among those who perished 
was also the soldier who came here with the 
lieutenant. He was found on the following day, 
his breast pierced with a bullet. The brave 
officer vanished without leaving a trace behind 
him. 

These were the horrible visions : I saw them 
every time I chanced to pass the ruined and 
devastated spot. It is painful to think of this 
place . . . How many human sorrows it wit- 
nessed. What strength, and what spiritual 
weakness ! 

The fate of the vain and unhappy officer does 
not in the least concern me. I am not even dis- 
posed to blame him for his weakness. For this 
we can only pity a man. One is bound to pity 
also those who met death at his hands. 

But for some reason or other I cannot help 


WAR VISIONS 


37 


remembering the wounded little girl. There she 
lay, dying from loss of blood ; there at the turn- 
ing of the footpath, near the two little birch 
trees. 



AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 
% 


I 


1 


AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 


I ONCE witnessed a unique duel. 

It happened during the present war. The 
cavalry regiment in which I served as Red Cross 
worker was stationed in a forsaken locality in 
the Carpathians, in a small Galician village. 
The enemy was retreating, and while our forces 
were regrouping, and before fresh reserves had 
arrived, we were doomed to tedious inactivity. 
There is nothing more dreadful than the tedi- 
ousness of waiting. 

War, like gambling, engulfs one. When the 
cards are dealt out I never have the patience to 
wait for the outcome of the game. I am eager 
to know the result at once, immediately. And 
here, in war, it is my life that is at stake — and 
I am anxious to know whether my card loses or 
wins. 

Do not believe those who say they experience 
no fear at war. It is not true. There are men 
who evince no fear, who suppress it with their 
will, but they do feel it, and it takes an excep- 
41 


42 AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 


tionally brave man to admit it. I was fond of 
observing the different ways in which people 
display this fear, for every one has his own way 
of showing it. Some hide it under a mask of 
calmness ; others, on the contrary, become pos- 
sessed of a sort of , bravado and courage; but 
most frequently this fear finds expression in in- 
tensified nervousness, in a highly agitated state 
of the senses. 

The atrocities committed by an infuriated 
enemy over defenseless wounded soldiers are 
nothing but signs of cowardice. I sometimes 
perceived the same cowardice in outbursts of 
sentimentality — towards animals, or towards a 
man’s mother at home, to whom, in times of 
peace, this very man never gave a thought, and 
for whom he never cared. 

Such is human nature — and such it will re- 
main. 

My best friends, with whom I whiled away 
my time in the Carpathians, were two young of- 
ficers, Ensign Shumilin and Lieutenant Petrov, 
both well-bred young men, both excellent chums, 
and both enjoying splendid reputations for their 
boundless bravery. 

Shumilin, about thirty years of age, an olive- 
complexioned, dark man, with merging eye- 
brows, at first made an impression of a person 


AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 48 


of stern character. He was not talkative, in- 
deed, quite reserved, and people who did not 
know him well thought him haughty. 

At first I, too, formed a similar opinion of 
him. Once, however, when he told me how dur- 
ing an attack a little hare strayed among the 
pursuers, and how the soldiers caught it and 
carried it to the trenches with them, and how 
afterwards they were obtaining food for it at 
the risk of their lives, I divined something new 
in the eyes of this man, a reflection of a benevo- 
lent, childlike sentiment, and since then I un- 
derstood and began to love him for his soul. 

As for Petrov, I had known him before the 
war broke out. He was a man of a jolly dispo- 
sition, an excellent guitar player and singer, in- 
dispensable at gatherings, and a great favorite 
with women. His only fault was a certain de- 
gree of bragging which he displayed rather fre- 
quently and which at times produced a repulsive 
impression. Most of all he was fond of boast- 
ing of his conquests over women. 

To this day I am not fully familiar with the 
details of the quarrel which took place between 
the two friends, but quarrels are by no means a 
rare occurrence during a campaign. All I know 
is that Petrov, under the influence of intoxi- 
cants, began to tell of his relations with a cer- 


44 AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 


tain Red Cross nurse in whom, to all appear- 
ances, Shumilin was also interested. Shumilin 
asked him to shut up, both grew excited, and the 
incident wound up with the gravest mutual in- 
sults, insults which among officers can be washed 
off only with blood. 

The rumor of a quarrel between the two inti- 
mate friends shocked the whole regiment. No 
matter what we undertook, no matter what 
efforts we applied to reconcile them, the two 
enemies remained inflexible and insisted that a 
duel be arranged at once, on the most difficult 
conditions possible. 

Finally the commander of the regiment inter- 
vened, sent an official invitation to the two 
adversaries to call on him, and decided the af- 
fair in his own way. 

^‘We are fighting now,’’ he said to them. 
‘^Duelling during war is prohibited, and I can- 
not permit two of my best officers to risk their 
lives needlessly. But I understand your situa- 
tion and wish to help you. I will give you per- 
mission to have a duel, but on one condition, 
which I am going to impose on you. Here it is : 
We’ll shortly resume the offensive. Wherever 
desperate bravery and self-sacrifice are re- 
quired, wherever the most risky exploits are 
necessary — I’ll send you two together. From 


AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 45 


now on you will be united in a bond of common 
danger. Your quarrel will be decided not by 
your own bullets, but by those of the enemy. 
The duel will be considered ended as soon as 
either of you is wounded. And until then I or- 
der you to forget all that has taken place be- 
tween you and to become again the same valor- 
ous comrades that you have been heretofore.’’ 

Nothing was to be said, and both officers de- 
parted in silence. 

The raffle began before we expected it. 
The very next morning an important recon- 
noissance party was sent out under the com- 
mand of Shumilin, with Petrov in the capacity 
of junior officer. The party was ordered to 
capture without fail one or more of the enemy ’s 
soldiers for information purposes. The enter- 
prise was highly dangerous, one of the most 
daring affairs I ever heard of. The scouts 
numbered eight, not including the officers. 

They left the village in the small hours of the 
morning, and at dawn reached the edge of a 
vast forest which, as was well known, was oc- 
cupied by Austrian troops. 

Scouts, forward! Party, gallop, forward 
march!” loudly commanded Shumilin, giving 
his horse the spurs and looking around with a 
vigilant eye. 


46 AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 


At this moment he forgot all about the duel 
and was all engrossed in the earnestness of his 
enterprise. He reminded himself of the duel 
only when Petrov, followed by his orderly, 
swept by on his chestnut charger, overtaking 
him. 

‘‘I’d just love to see how you’ll feel when 
you come across the enemy,” thought Shumi- 
lin with an evil feeling of hidden vengeance. 

But hardly had he become conscious of this 
thought when he noticed a few puffs of smoke 
ahead of him — and a volley was fired. 

“Germans,” some one near him said in an 
undertone. 

“Charge at full speed!” Shumilin replied to 
the remark, and unsheathing his saber tore 
along the frozen road. 

Reaching the meadow he noticed Petrov still 
racing ahead and, at a distance, a band of 
Austrian Hussars who had already turned their 
horses preparing to flee. One of them, a stout 
and short-legged officer, kept jumping on one 
foot around his large thoroughbred horse and 
could by no means get his foot into the stirrup. 
Shumilin was on him but Petrov had already 
a hold of the horse’s bridle. 

“Hold the prisoner. I’ll pursue the rest,” 
shouted Petrov and swept on. 


AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 47 


‘‘Where are you going? Come back!’’ cried 
Shumilin after him, but it was too late, and 
Petrov disappeared behind the bushes. 

“He’ll be killed, he will,” thought Shumilin 
with alarm, forgetting all about the duel, and 
dashed after his comrade at full speed. 

The scouting party having splendidly exe- 
cuted its assigned task, did not return until 
evening, having lost but three soldiers killed 
in the skirmish, and bringing in four pris- 
oners, among them the officer with German 
maps and important documents in his posses- 
sion. 

Shumilin reported officially the limitless 
bravery of Lieutenant Petrov, while the latter 
declared before everybody that the enterprise 
was a success due solely to the courage and 
determination of the head of the scouting party, 
and that he would refuse a reward unless one 
would be given also to Ensign Shumilin. 

Neither of the duelists was wounded, and the 
duel had to be continued. 

The second act of the combat took place in 
the trenches and lasted a whole month. The 
regiment was dismounted and intrenched. The 
two rivals sat almost side by side, a few paces 
from one another, before the barbed wire en- 


48 AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 


tanglements of the enemy and for a whole 
month kept on tempting fate with their acts of 
desperate madness. 

But, as is usual in such cases, fate spared 
them. They slept together, almost side by side, 
ate dinner together, and together exposed their 
breasts to the fire of the Austrians. But they 
never spoke to each other — they were ene- 
mies. 

At first, as during the reconnoissance sortie, 
they tried to outrival each other, and sought 
in each other signs of cowardice and faint- 
heartedness. But there was no trace of cow- 
ardice in either of them. On the contrary, both 
of them carried their bravery to madness, and 
each was aware of it — in the other. 

Gradually the petty feeling of lying in wait 
and jealousy gave way first to a certain degree 
of mutual astonishment, and finally to full 
mutual respect and even more than that. Often 
they secretly admired each other. 

But they were enemies and were not on 
speaking terms. 

At length their constant association, their 
constant being together resulted in their getting 
used and in becoming indispensable to each 
other. Whenever one of them stood up waist 
high above the trench, thus attracting a hail of 


AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 49 


the enemy’s bullets, the other would look at him 
with trepidation, fear for him, and pray in his 
innermost soul that the bullets might spare his 
adversary. 

But neither dared say it loudly — they were 
enemies. 

They conquered the most powerful feeling in 
men, the fear of death. They conquered their 
mutual hatred and envy; moreover, they forgot 
their mutual insults and offenses, but when it 
came to the feeling of petty selfishness, cheap 
and unnecessary, they could not overcome it, 
and both maintained a stern silence, and hid 
from themselves as well as from others their 
best impulses. 

They were enemies ! 

Death raged all around them, the regiment 
thinned down, having lost more than half of 
its number in killed and mangled, but the two 
enemies still continued to turn away from and 
would not speak to each other. And yet — 
how often did they experience a keen desire to 
make up and be friends as before ! 

Why, then, did they not communicate their 
thoughts to each other? Why did they look 
at each other only at night when one of them, 
wrapped up in his tarpaulin sack, slept and 
could not see the expression of his ‘‘enemy’s’^ 


50 AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 


face, as the latter carefully adjusted his com- 
rade’s damp overcoat! 

The trench warfare resulted in one of the 
largest battles of that year. Our regiment was 
in the thick of the fighting and suffered tre- 
mendous losses. 

During sorties, the rivals were near each 
other. In the confusion of the attack, deafened 
by the roar of cannon, by the rattling of ma- 
chine guns and incessant explosions of shrap- 
nel and hand-grenades, the soldiers rushed for- 
ward, breaking through the barbed wire en- 
tanglements in that bewildered state of mind, 
when all consciousness ceases, and one yields 
one’s self to the elemental forces, without re- 
straint ; perhaps even like a madman. One has 
no time to think on such occasions. Only im- 
pressions and images become indelibly im- 
printed on one’s mind with an unusual force. 

Whoever has experienced this feeling once is 
sure never to forget it. 

One cannot possibly forget an attack. It 
haunts one in dreams at night, it pursues the 
imagination like a nightmare during spells of 
insomnia, and in one’s dying hour one sees be- 
fore him images of infuriated, beastlike faces, 
images of lost comrades, and of the stricken, 
helplessly falling enemy. . . . 


AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 51 

Thunder, smoke, blood — and, mainly, men’s 
eyes. 

Eyes ! All sorts of expressions. All shades, 
beginning with the ravenous beastly glance of 
an attacking soldier, and ending with the glassy, 
dreadful eyes of a silent corpse. 

The entire life of Mankind with all its experi- 
ences lies in those eyes. . . . 


The last Shumilin saw of Petrov was on the 
very ridge of the enemy’s trench. The rem- 
nants of the enemy’s detachment were still 
holding out in the trenches, and a hand-to-hand 
fight was going on. 

It was over in a few minutes, for the few 
remaining Austrians had surrendered and the 
trench was ours. 

Shumilin, following his habit, looked around 
seeking Petrov with his eyes, and failed to dis- 
cover him. 

‘‘He must have been killed,” he thought, his 
heart sinking within him. He ran along the 
trenches examining the corpses. 

Petrov lay, motionless, on the bottom of the 
trench. 

Shumilin jumped down, bent over him and 
listened for his breathing. 


52 AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 


“God be thanked, he’s alive,” he said, almost 
aloud and called the Red Cross men. 

Shumilin himself lifted his enemy, carefully 
examined his wound — Petrov’s breast had been 
shot through — and placed him on a stretcher. 

The wounded officer came to at the field 
lazaret, in my presence. 

His very first question was whether Shumilin 
was alive. 

“He is, and luckier than you, too, I have not 
even been wounded,” responded Shumilin who 
sat nearby awaiting with anxiety the physi- 
cian’s verdict. 

The patient made an effort to shake hands 
with his comrade, but Shumilin rose and kissed 
Petrov’s head. 

“Those confounded nerves!” he muttered, 
stepping aside and wiping away a tear. 

“I’m glad our duel is over,” moaned Petrov 
in a hardly audible voice, and once more lost 
consciousness. 

I left the theater of war operations while 
Petrov was convalescing. 

Shumilin visited him daily and treated him 
with all the tenderness of a brother. He 
confessed to me that during the last attack he 




îl 

! 



Ills laUST QUli:STlüN WAS WHETHER SHUMULIN 
WAS ALIVE. 


An Affair of Honor^ 





AN AFFAIR OF HONOR 53 


had vowed, were he to remain alive, to make 
up with his enemy. 

But he had not the time to do it. 

His commendable impulse was not destined 
to be realized. 

It was forestalled by the enemy bullet. 


THE SCAELET BASHLYKS 


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THE SCAELET BASHLYKS 

When war broke out and the news spread 
over vast, immeasureable Eussia, the sons of 
the various peoples that make up this mighty 
empire heard the call, and like one man flocked 
to the defense of their common land. 

Wild and independent Caucasus, the beauty 
spot of Eussia, so recently joined to its present 
Mother-country, heard of the war ; and, like an 
eagle waking after a long sleep, stretched its 
mighty wings, and together with the rest of 
Eussia, dashed otf to the West to meet the foe. 

The division, consisting of six select Cau- 
casian cavalry regiments bearing the names of 
the tribes of which they were composed, were 
at once nicknamed ‘‘wild’^ in the everyday life 
at the front. All the men of this division, both 
privates and officers, were volunteers. The 
horses under them were their own, brought from 
their native hills; even their weapons, barring 
the guns and rifles, were their own, family heir- 
looms, the pride of many generations. 

Sixty years ago, with these same weapons, 
the fathers and grandfathers of these soldiers 
67 


58 THE SCARLET BASHLYKS 


had fought for independence against Russia; 
and now, side by side with their former enemies, 
they are fighting for a common Motherland 
against an ancient common foe. 

I met this Division in Lvov, the capital of 
Galicia; and I am happy that I was able to 
spend some time with these men in surroundings 
of war in the very depths of the Carpathian 
Mountains. 

I was attached to the Staff of the Cavalry 
Corps as member of the Red Cross. 

I remember the first impression I had of these 
people when I arrived in the tiny Galician vil- 
lage at the foot of the hills, on what happened 
to be a regimental feast day. It was wonder- 
ful autumn weather. The whole regiment was 
drawn up on a green field by the roadside ; the 
sun gilded the tops of the distant hills. 

During the review, which was held by the com- 
manding officer, the squadron passed by us in 
rows; and to the music of native airs the riders 
and their steeds caracoled with such marvelous 
grace and beauty that I shall never forget the 
scene. 

First, the music. Wild, primitive melodies, 
often with a plaintive note, came from some 
special wind instruments, reminding one of 
shepherds’ pipes; only the beat of the drum 


THE SCARLET BASHLYKS 59 


gave energy and relieved the minor tone. To 
this sound of the pipes the Caucasian hillmen 
caracole on their horses, dance on feast-days, 
rush to battle — die. 

Their horses are small, active, wiry; and 
the riders sit so freely and gracefully that it 
would seem as though they were born on horse- 
back. Man and horse are one; and looking 
at them you do not know which is the more 
beautiful. Both man and horse are decorated. 

A silver bridle, saddle, silver or gold dagger 
at the belt, curved sword, of silver and Da- 
mascus steel, on the breast a row of silvered 
rifle cartridges, a huge yellow sheep’s hat on the 
head — these are the ornaments habitual to every 
one of these men. And to cap it all, each one 
of them wears a bright red woollen hashlyh} 
This is the sign of fearlessness ; a sort of chal- 
lenge thrown to the enemy. 

‘T have no fear of you. My bright-colored 
hashlyk is seen everywhere; its color is a con- 
spicuous bright spot all around. I know this, 
and I wear it purposely. I am not afraid of 
you.” 

In the introduction to his posthumous story, 
‘‘Hadji-Murat,” my father compares a Cau- 

1 Bashlyk is a head cloth resembling that worn by monks, 
with a point at the top, with two long ends to wrap around 
the throat. 


60 THE SCARLET BASHLYKS 


casian hillman to the pretty field flower, ‘‘Ta- 
tarnik.” 

Watching the regiment before me, I recol- 
lected this comparison and saw its aptness. 

After the review there was dinner. Wine was 
drunk ; and dancers from Daghestan performed 
their favorite dance — the lezginka. Sticking 
their daggers, as sharp as razors, into the 
ground, they flew about, to the tune of their 
native music, in their wild, impulsive and in- 
spired dance — ^heedless, fearless, agile, like 
panthers. 

Look at them I thought, ^‘How well they take 
in joy! How thoroughly and heartily they en- 
ter into these bright moments of common 
pleasure, common holiday. 

‘‘And to-morrow brings battle. How many 
of these will that battle leave cripples ; and how 
many will it carry away from us forever — ^never 
to return r' 

A few days later fighting recommenced. 
Along a mountain ridge, waist-deep in snow, 
the regiment passed over the crest of the Car- 
pathians, and in the dead of night, just before 
daybreak, fell on the Austrian staff head- 
quarters. It was a thunderbolt for the enemy. 
It was unbelievable that at this time of the year 


THE SCARLET BASHLYKS 61 


it was possible to cross the Carpathian strong- 
holds; the place was considered impenetrable. 

The battle was short and ended in complete 
victory for the Caucasians. The entire staff 
of the enemy was captured. 

Returning, the hillmen brought some of their 
wounded and dead comrades on the backs of 
their horses. 

The bond between these men is great. 
‘‘Kunak’’ is their name for a friend, and never 
and under no circumstances will they* abandon 
one. With them, friendship is a cult, a religion. 
And in battle, seeing one of ‘‘his own’’ falling, 
the hillman forgets all danger, and runs to suc- 
cor a Kunak. No wounded are ever left in the 
hands of the enemy. 

After the battle the wounded were placed in 
the hospital. Among them was an officer, an 
Eastern Prince, one of whose legs had to be 
amputated. 

I saw him the next day. Pale and weak from 
loss of blood he was lying there. With a distant 
look in his large divining eyes, staring straight 
ahead of him, he quietly hummed the dancing 
tune of the Caucasian lezginka. 

Seeing me, he stretched out his hand. 

“Thanks for coming to see me, Kunak.” 


62 THE SCARLET BASHLYKS 


‘‘Tiredr’ 

‘‘No.’’ 

‘ ‘Your leg painful 1 ’ ’ 

“My heart aches and not the leg. I want to 
fight again but no more fighting for me without 
a leg. No ! I think when I get up, even without 
the leg I’ll jump on my horse and will fight.” 

A few days later blood-poisoning set in; and 
his strength was ebbing from hour to hour. 
But all the time he hummed his tune, the same 
lezginka, only slower and slower, lower and 
lower. Now hardly audible, just with his 
breath. 

He died with that song on his lips; and his 
brother serving in the same regiment took an 
oath over the corpse that his death would be 
avenged, and that with his own hands he would 
cut up ten Austrians. 

I do not know whether he carried out this 
oath, as within a few months he also fell, like 
so many of his comrades ; like half of the origi- 
nal number of the division. 

The ranks of the regiments, though, do not 
thin. They are filled with hosts of new volun- 
teers with bright red bashlyks; fearless, un- 
tamed. 

Bright wild flowers of wonderful primitive 
Caucasus ! 


THE LITTLE GREEN STICK 


THE LITTLE GEEEN STICK 


This fantastic tale is an attempt to answer the question that 
is asked me so often: “What would your father say about 
the war if he were living to-day?” My father is buried in 
the woods about a mile from his home at Vasnaya Polyana. 
This place he chose himself in memory of his beloved eldest 
brother, Nicolai, and the fairy tale that he heard from him. 
In this place, says the tale, is buried a little green stick on 
which is written a word that will render all men brothers, and 
all people happy. — I. T. 

No time, no space. 

Sometime, long, long ago — the oldest men 
cannot remember it, and tradition has long since 
disappeared — there were some mills on this 
spot. Men dug ore from the bowels of the 
earth and burned it in furnaces. 

Ages have passed. The land has been cov- 
ered by soft meadows and deep shadowed 
woods; a blue carpet of forget-me-nots adds a 
pleasant tinge of color to the landscape; only 
a few small hills here and there, as if set to 
order, testify to the fact that some time, long, 
long ago, there had been a busy life here. The 
soil is black, mixed with grains of slag, granu- 
lated and glistening. 


65 


66 THE LITTLE GREEN STICK 


It was more than eighty years ago. Two 
blue-eyed boys, one twelve and the other five 
years old, roamed through these woods telling 
each other stories. 

The younger one, Liovushka, listens with awe 
and admiration to the older one whom he loves 
dearly and for whom he is so full of respect that 
he does not even address him by ‘‘thou,’^ but 
by ‘‘you’’ — “Nikolenka-you.” They are both 
talking of love ; that all men must some day be- 
come brothers; that all men will love one an- 
other and will help one another; just like ants 
on their mound; they will be “ant-brothers.” 
Some day this will be, but to be brothers, one 
word must become known. 

This word Nikolenka wrote on a little green 
stick, and this little stick he buried here on the 
slope in the black soil. 

Whoever will find this little stick will make 
men brothers, and every one happy. 

No time, no space. 

Ages passed. 

Peasants came to the slope with shovels in 
their hands. They dug a three-yard grave at 
the summit; and the next day a multitude of 
people gathered here and into the dug grave 


THE LITTLE GREEN STICK 67 


they lowered the corpse of a gray, robust old 
man. 

Among the seven oaks a bed of flowers has 
grown on this grave, and often men gather 
around the spot. They stop, raise their hats 
and stand in silent meditation. Some careful 
hand has laid flowers upon the bed, and the 
same hand throws daily handfuls of oat-seeds 
among the flowers. 

Sparrows and pinnocks flutter over the tops 
of the trees and joyfully whistle their mutual 
greetings. When the people disappear, they 
come down upon the slope, pick up the grains, 
hide them in the crevices of the oak-bark as if 
in a vise, and artfully peck out the kernels with 
their beaks. The empty spikes, like the bristles 
of a brush, are sticking out of the crevices along 
the trunks of all the seven oaks. 

At night a hare often roams around the 
grave. He jumps upon the pathway, scents 
human traces, picks up the stems of hay, sits 
up on his hind legs, rushes hither and thither, 
and, doubling on his trail, makes a hasty leap 
and disappears to the byway. 

Then behind the slope he builds his lair. 

Days and nights close in over the grave. 

Years are fleeting. 


68 THE LITTLE GREEN STICK 


No time — ^Years pass. 

There was a night. The earth was covered 
with the first light winter snowfall. No moon; 
but the whole western horizon was purple red 
with fire. The sky was bathed in blood. The 
long fiery tongues were blazing so glaringly 
that the shadows of the oaks upon the snow 
seemed to dance. 

Slowly a spirit rose from the grave — and in 
measured steps he walked to the highway. 

In his hands he held a little green stick. 

He looked around. Cherishingly he beteld 
the little stick, read the word scratched on it in 
an uneven childish handwriting, and with a 
speedy and noiseless step he moved towards the 
house. 

Midnight was approaching; people were 
going to bed and all around was silence and 
darkness. Only in the West that lurid fire was 
burning. 

He walked around the house and peeped into 
the window by the porch; the only window in 
which a light was shining. The panes of glass 
were coated with silvery glistening crystals of 
hoar frost, and he had to warm them with his 
breath before he could look in. 

She sat alone, bending her near-sighted eyes 
over a sheet of paper, and in elderly, feeble 


THE LITTLE GREEN STICK 69 


hand she wrote something. Her face showed 
great affliction. Cautiously he approached her 
ear and gently he whispered his word to her; 
the word written on the little stick — 

He continued to look at her. 

When the word shone upon the paper and its 
luster reflected on her eyes and brightened her 
soul, he looked upon her with tears of joy in 
his eyes, and off he went on his way. 

Through houses, humble huts and hamlets he 
rambled ; the whole village he roamed through. 
He spoke the word to everybody and every one 
understood him. He whispered the word to 
children in their dreams and they rejoiced and 
smiled at him in their sleep. 

In one of the houses he heard a noise. He 
went to the window and saw a drunken peasant 
beating his wife because she had hidden his 
money from him. When the drunkard became 
so exhausted that he fell upon the floor, his wife 
lifted him up and looked at him with hatred 
and scorn. 

The spirit approached her and whispered the 
word to her. The woman breathed with an ef- 
fort to overcome her physical pain. She ap- 
proached the man who had just beaten her al- 
most senseless, cautiously she raised his head 
and put a pillow under it. (Episode adapted 


70 THE LITTLE GREEN STICK 

from the novel of Polentz’ ‘‘The Peasant.^’) 

In another place he found two brothers 
quarreling over the partition of a parcel of 
land; and here, too, he helped them by his word. 

Many people has he visited ; and many a time 
he spoke the coveted word of Nikolenka — and 
everywhere this word aided the people and 
made them brothers. 

But the West was still aflame. 

The spirit stood hesitating, meditating; and 
finally, determined, was off with a firm step 
towards the purple, burning sky. Thunder 
roared from afar ; lightning zigzagged through 
the sky, and the blasting grew more and more 
terrific and deafening. He walked with quick- 
ened step, all the while closely pressing his little 
stick to his bosom. 

On the outlines of the fire he could discern 
the faint features of men hurrying and rushing 
somewhere, as people usually rush to a fire. 
Confused and disconcerted people rushed by; 
some towards him; other past and ahead of 
him. The faces of all of them were full of 
anguish and terror. He was so anxious to help 
them, he wanted to tell them but one word, only 
one word; but his feeble, senile voice was 
drowned by the roar of the thunder, and in the 
fumes of smoke people did not notice him. 


THE LITTLE GREEN STICK 71 


Long stood the spirit on the field furrowed by 
narrow trenches and ditches. Finally he turned 
around ; and, noticed by no one, slowly wended 
his way back to his refuge; back to his ravine, 
to the seven oaks. 

No time, no space. 

The fire will be extinguished. 

The sacred, coveted word will some day be 
heard. 

The little green stick is there ; its power must 
manifest itself upon the earth. 

It is dawning. The sparrows and pinnocks 
wake up and joyfully they are twittering on the 
bare branches of the oaks. 

The white hare is taking his day’s repose in 
his warm lair. 

The pure white fresh snow has decked the 
earth. 

The fog is rising ; and from behind the milky 
way shine the first rays of the bright rising sun. 




STOEIES OP RUSSIAN LIFE 


TOO LATE 



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TOO LATE 


My wife died forty days ago. 

The priests came in the morning and served 
mass. 

I did not want to leave my room, but sister 
Varia came in, all in tears, and dragged me out 
almost by force. When I entered the drawing 
room I was at once overwhelmed by the suffo- 
cating odor of incense. The servants crowded 
at the door, coachman Ivan, with smoothly 
pomatumed hair, was busy wielding the censer, 
the deacon was distributing candles, and in the 
front, at the window, stood the children. In 
white, clean dresses, with thin legs, they nestled 
to the nurse and seemed to me frightened and 
piteous. 

Especially Tanya. 

I perceive that her seven-year-old brain is 
undergoing a conscious process of grief, and I 
am astonished at the fortitude with which she 
bears it. As if she knows something we grown- 
ups cannot grasp. 


75 


76 


TOO LATE 


Every morning, when she comes to greet me 
she looks at me with such tenderness in her 
eyes that a dread comes over me and I rudely 
turn away from her. To look at Misha also 
causes me pain — he resembles his mother too 
closely. 

After mass, when they began to sing 

Eternal Memory’’ my nerves again played me 
false and in order not to burst into tears in 
everybody’s presence I returned to my room. 

They all pity me, take care of me, are moved 
by my love for my deceased wife. This is un- 
bearable. I cannot live like this any longer. 
From the very day of her death I have been 
trying to understand all that took place, and 
the more I think of it the more entangled do I 
get. Is it possible that my whole life has been 
a continuous self-deception? And was it in- 
deed necessary to kill my wife in order to come 
finally to my senses? I make an endeavor to 
look over the memories of the entire period of 
my conscious life and to find among them at 
least one act without an underlying motive of 
egoism in its rudest aspect, — and I cannot find 
any. 

I shall begin with my youth. 

It causes me pain to recall that period of 


TOO LATE 


77 


my life, just as in youth it was painful to recall 
my childhood, — I was so much better then. It 
seemed as though only good things were in 
store for me — and I endeavored to preserve 
myself for them and kept on preparing for life. 
I did not live, I only anticipated life. As luck 
would have it, I remained chaste and without 
knowing woman to my very wedding day. And 
well did I know how to pride myself on it. 
With what haughty disdain did I regard my 
chums when, after a spree they would betake 
themselves to the women, while I would very 
proudly bid them good-by at the threshold of 
the house of ill-repute and go home to sleep. 

My moral chastity was my only trump and I 
used it in the game in order to rise above others 
at least in one respect. That is why I took care 
to preserve my chastity. 

I never told anybody that many a time I found 
myself on the very brink of falling and if, after 
all, I saved myself it was only due to chance. 

I remember Varia, the chambermaid, who 
slept in the hallway opposite my parents’ bed- 
room. Had she slept somewhere further away, 
at the other end of the house it would have 
been much more difficult for her to get rid of 
me when I used to come at night and annoy 
her. I also remember the modiste, Lienka, with 


78 


TOO LATE 


whom I made an appointment for ten o ’clock in 
the evening in the wood-house. I disappointed 
her and did not come because that very day 
some one told me she was sick. I also remem- 
ber the black-eyed chambermaid, Liza, who 
stayed with /US only one week. My parents 
noticed that I became too frequent a visitor 
to the maid-servants’ room — and discharged 
her. 

The number of such cases proving my cow- 
ardice and vileness, was very great. Of course, 
I kept them secret even from my most intimate 
friends because it did not pay me to admit that 
my chastity was purely accidental. It behooved 
me to display my achievement in order to flaunt 
and show my pride in it. 

Chaste people are invariably of an amorous 
disposition. 

My love affairs began at the age of fifteen. 
And since then not a minute of my life passed 
but I was infatuated by one woman or another. 
As soon as one affair was over I would im- 
mediately start another; and thus I always 
found myself in a hurly-burly of voluptuous de- 
sires. 

It must have been instinctively that I never 
fell in love with married women, probably feel- 


TOO LATE 79 

ing myself unequal to resisting the tempta- 
tions held out by them. 

In my self-delusion I attempted to convince 
myself and others that it is a crime to solicit 
the love of a woman who belongs to another, 
and therefore I preferred to corrupt with my 
love-making sixteen-year-old girls with whom 
success was a foregone conclusion almost in 
every case. 

And how could they possibly help loving me, 
who so adroitly played before them the part of 
a pure, chaste youth languishing under the yoke 
of an incessant struggle with temptation? 

And whenever I approached my pure ideal 
in whose name I waged the struggle and im- 
plored to grant me ‘‘at least a drop of sym- 
pathy^’ to strengthen me on my difficult road — 
needless to say, it was next to impossible to re- 
fuse me. And from heartfelt sympathy to an 
innocent caress, to a brotherly kiss is not far 
to travel. And was not all this nothing but 
lewdness, willful and artful? In what, then, 
did I differ from my spoiled chums? Perhaps 
in that they acted in a straightforward manner 
and took the responsibility for their actions on 
themselves while I disguised my carnal desires 
under a mask of purity. 

I do not know which is worse. 


80 


TOO LATE 


And thus I lived until the age of nineteen. 

When I made the acquaintance of my future 
wife she was sixteen years old. 

She was a jolly, rustically simple girl, beau- 
tiful in her straightforwardness and purity. 

It was at Moscow, in her parents’ home. 

The very first evening of our acquaintance 
we became engaged in a lively game of blind 
man’s buff, and were so carried away by it 
that I had my new coat torn. At supper I very 
cleverly joined the conversation of the older 
folks and tried my best to make a show with 
my moral arguments, most probably of a very 
naïve character, but they must have made an 
impression on her. And this was all I needed. 
She became firm in the conviction that I was a 
jolly good fellow and — what is most important 
— a youth of high morals. 

Two years later I left the university, got 
married and settled in the country. Since then 
I have been living here for the last eight years 
without leaving the place once. 

I remember how I brought my young, inex- 
perienced Liza to my family estate. 

It was on a deep-black autumnal night. 
After we left the railway carriage, riding along 
the muddy road, full of holes and hollows, see- 
ing nothing before us in the darkness, jumping 


TOO LATE 


81 


up and down and bumping into each other in 
the wicker seat of the country buggy, she 
nestled to me and laughed like a child. It was 
comical, indeed, and rather in queer contrast 
with the magnificent wedding dinner at Moscow, 
with the softly lit compartment in the railway 
carriage, with the elastic velvet couches in 
which we had been sitting for a few hours, ex- 
changing caresses once in a while, and hiding 
with all our might our thoughts from one an- 
other. 

And I myself joined in her laughter because 
my nerves were overstrained. 

It was then that I for the first time happened 
to think of the tremendous moral responsibility 
I had taken upon myself by having married her, 
and I vowed to myself to do all in my power 
to make my wife happy. 

My only aim in life then was to gratify her 
thoughts and wishes, and it seemed to me I 
loved her. 

We grew accustomed to each other in an 
appallingly short period of time, and for a few 
years in succession I had felt so happy with 
her that I did not even notice how the time 
flew. 

The calm and happy existence I led served to 


82 


TOO LATE 


deaden still more the hardly perceptible traces 
of Good which had still been in me and, ulti- 
mately, I became altogether hardened. 

I did not even notice how my wife and I ex- 
changed rôles. 

It turned out in the end that it was not I 
who tried to make her happy, but on the con- 
trary I led an entirely inane animal existence, 
and she watched over my idleness, and herself 
bore all the burdens, beginning with the ad- 
ministration of our estate and ending with 
household duties and the care of the children. 

Giving birth to a boy, three years ago, she 
became dangerously ill and was on the very 
verge of death. The doctors told me that 
childbirth was dangerous for my wife’s life, 
and advised us to take precautions against con- 
ception. Accidentally this happened to coin- 
cide with the commencement of my activity in 
Zemstvo affairs. 

In the company of neighbors and friends I 
diverted myself with hunting, meetings, ca- 
rouses, and little by little I learned to keep away 
from my family until it ceased to disturb me. 

And it was then that I became acquainted 
with Natasha. 

How painful it is to recall all that! And 


TOO LATE 83 

how difficult it is to compel myself to think and 
not to lie to myself. Even now . . . 

Now I see many an event in a new light. I 
make efforts to place myself again in that half 
insane state in which I had been for two years 
— and I cannot do it. Who knows, but I may 
be insane now, too . . . 

Even so . . . 

Since I have not succeeded in deceiving my- 
self to the last, it is better for me to pause and 
face the trdth. And furthermore. . . . 

But is it not immaterial! 

I served as chairman of the District Zemstvo 
Administration. Forty versts from my country 
estate, in the most forsaken part of the district, 
was located the Gorki Zemstvo Hospital. 

My duties included the general supervision 
of the business administration of the hospital, 
and I had to visit it a few times during the year. 
Oh, how I hated those journeys ! 

An awfully long distance, an infamously bad 
road, an old, decaying building always in need 
of repair, an ill smelling inn, and, besides, the 
ever changing physicians. During the two 
years of my service with the Zemstvo, three 
doctors left Gorki one after another. True, 


84 


TOO LATE 


the conditions of their life there were absolutely 
impossible. Everybody knew it. And for a 
long time every now and then voices had been 
raised among the members of the Zemstvo urg- 
ing the necessity of thorough alterations in all 
the hospital buildings. But a large amount of 
money was required for the purpose, nobody 
was very persistent, and for a number of years 
in succession this question would be submitted 
to the Zemstvo and tabled from one year to 
another. 

That year there lived in Gorki a newly ap- 
pointed young physician, Panov, an idealist 
and energetic worker. From the very out- 
set of his new activity he launched an insistent 
campaign for the improvements which he con- 
sidered indispensable, and urged me to come to 
see him in order to devise by mutual efforts a 
plan for alterations. 

I distinctly remember this journey because 
a terrible snow storm was raging that day. 

A few times coachman Ivan and I lost our 
way; we got off the sleigh, groped for the road, 
or else tried to locate it by the snow-swept, 
hardly visible guide posts ; then we would again 
lose the way, and find it once more. It was due 
only to the endurance of the horses that at about 
six o’clock in the evening, half frozen, all cov- 


TOO LATE 


85 


ered with snow, we reached Gorki. I alighted 
at the inn and went to the hospital on foot. In 
the entrance hall of the hospital wing I was 
met by the doctor. 

‘‘My God, how yon look!^’ he said, helping 
me off with my fnr coat, “let me have your 
coat, I’ll have it shaken out for you at once — it 
is all covered with snow. Walk right in, we 
happen to have the samovar on the table.” 

“It must be terribly cold. Allow me to in- 
troduce you to my sister,” he hastened to add, 
perceiving Natasha who stood at the door with 
a white apron on and smiling. It seemed to 
me he was afraid lest I mistake her for a 
chambermaid. 

But could I possibly? 

I stood before her picking the icicles out of 
my beard and moustache and scrutinizing her 
amiable face and searching for some memories, 
distant and lost — who knows where and when? 
Where was it that I had met her ? 

Why is everything in her so near and dear 
to me ? As though I had always known her ? 

And yet I could not describe her appearance 
even now . . . 

And how can I expect to be able to describe 
her who for two years had been dwelling in my 
soul and possessing my entire being and whose 


86 


TOO LATE 


image had changed in my imagination a count- 
less number of times f 

I see her before me at this moment, but she 
is different now and I find it difficult to restore 
her in my memory as I met her for the first time. 
I remember her large, light eyes, always with 
a slight expression of astonishment in them, 
and her long, thick braid. For some unknown 
reason, whenever she smiled I would begin to 
pity her and feel like consoling her. 

Hers was the smile of a child asking forgive- 
ness. 

I did not see much of her that evening. She 
attended to the supper, ran to the kitchen every 
minute and returned all fiushed and listened 
with interest to our conversation. I must have 
been scrutinizing her very closely, because she 
told me later that she was amazed by my fixed 
look, “as though I wanted to see the very bot- 
tom of her soul.^’ 

At supper, their mother, a rather elderly, 
carefully dressed lady joined us and the con- 
versation became general. 

I shall never forget that evening, when 
Natasha and I, absolute strangers, timorously 
listened to each other as though seeking for 
points of common interest. Unfortunately, 


TOO LATE 


87 


there proved to be only too many of them later 
on. I do not know whether I fell in love with 
her at first sight. It is hard to tell. In order 
to love a person we must know him or her thor- 
oughly. That is why I think that the feeling 
which awakens in people at the first meeting is 
not love, but most probably, desire ; and possi- 
bly, mere curiosity. Does not my greatest 
error lie in this direction? 

After supper I intended to return to the inn, 
but it turned out that my hosts had already pre- 
pared a room for me and in order not to offend 
them I had to spend the night there. In spite 
of my fatigue I did not fall asleep at once. 

I lay in a small cozy room, on a clean bed and 
sank in an idle revery. Soon everything was 
silent in the house. I was about to blow out the 
candle when I happened to notice ladies ’ dresses 
hanging in the corner and neatly covered with 
a white sheet. Against another wall, directly 
opposite me, stood an old walnut chest of draw- 
ers, and on it a small looking glass and a few 
trinkets. 

‘‘This must be Natasha’s room,” occurred to 
me, and at first I felt embarrassed at the thought 
that she gave me her bed to sleep in. 

But afterwards, very soon afterwards, this 


88 


TOO LATE 


bashful feeling gave way to a new, keen sensa- 
tion of cynical curiosity, so alluring that I had 
to make an effort in order not to succumb to it, 
and I blew out the candle. In the darkness the 
feeling of uneasiness became still more acute. 

Now, after my wife’s death, I know that a 
room preserves for a long, very long time a 
particle of the soul of the man or woman that 
occupied it. 

I know it now, for I cannot enter her room 
without seeing her there and even hearing hei* 
breathe, — ^but then, in Natasha’s room, all I 
felt was an incomprehensible titillation of which 
I was not conscious at the time. 

I awoke rather early, got up at once and be- 
gan to dress. Washing myself I caught a 
glimpse of the hem of a light gray skirt which 
protruded from under the bulging sheet, recol- 
lected my nocturnal thoughts and once more 
felt somewhat ashamed. 

I felt as though I overheard something or 
peered through a key hole. 

The same feeling arose in me when I entered 
the dining room in the morning and met 
Natasha’s childishly confiding glance. 

She stood with her white apron on, at the 
boiling samovar preparing tea. Through the 
window panes covered with hoar frost, through 


TOO LATE 89 

the brightly sparkling figures, shone the red 
winter sun. 

‘‘Mother has not got up yet, and Petia went 
to see his patients so as to get through 
earlier,’^ she said, shaking hands with me. 
“Please sit down. What will you have, tea or 
coffee? Have you slept well? I was afraid 
you would feel uncomfortable in a small room. 
But it is warm there, isn’t it?” 

“Natalia Michailovna, it was your room and 
I’m very sorry you troubled yourself about 
me,” I said, admiring her handsome, strong 
hand with which she was serving the tea. 

“Oh, nonsense, I have slept in mother’s 
room. I sleep there often anyhow, especially 
when she’s indisposed. I am very fond of her 
divan, it is so wide and comfortable. I always 
slept on it when I was a child,” answered 
Natasha and for some reason or other got em- 
barrassed. I noticed the guilty look in her eyes 
and smiled against my will. 

“What are you laughing at?” she asked, in- 
tercepting my smile. 

“Because it is strange to hear you say 
of yourself : ‘When I was a child. ’ One would 
think you were grown up now.” 

“Of course, I am. I’m already eighteen. 
I’ve graduated from the pedagogical class of 


90 


TOO LATE 


the gynuiasium this year and shall soon be- 
come a teacher. IVe been dreaming of it all 
my life. It is such an interesting profes- 
sion.’’ 

‘^And where would you like to teach?” I in- 
quired. 

^‘It is immaterial to me, but mother doesn’t 
want me to leave her and insists that I ask to 
be appointed to our school in Gorki. You never 
visited it. It has about fifty pupils, and I am 
very fond of children,” she said and became lost 
in thought. 

How lovely she was at that moment ! While 
she spoke, I watched the expression of her face 
without taking my eyes off her. 

Of course I promised her on the spot to ob- 
tain a position for her not later than next 
spring. It gave me pleasure to watch her joy 
and to be active together with her in school 
affairs. Half an hour later the doctor came, 
drank his glass of tea hurriedly and took me 
along with him to the hospital wards. 

Having inspected everything, I prepared to- 
gether with Peter Michailovitch a detailed plan 
of alterations, ate my breakfast and departed. 

Passing the Zemstvo school I suddenly felt 
a desire to see it and halted the horses. 


TOO LATE 


91 


I opened the door and entered a large, light 
room; the children jumped to their feet with 
quite some commotion, the teacher pulled nerv- 
ously the collar of his soiled shirt, and I myself 
felt lost during the first minute, not knowing 
what I came for. 

As usual in such cases, after the first minute 
of surprise, the children became accustomed to' 
the situation, and I asked the teacher to go on 
with the lesson and not to pay any attention 
to me. 

The advanced section was having a lesson in 
dictation. 

Watching the pock-marked seminary gradu- 
ate slowly pacing to and fro across the class 
room and fixing at every step his eye glasses 
which had a tendency to slide otf his large nose, 
and listening to his clear enunciation of the 
sentences of some foolish story, I thought very 
sincerely that I was interested in the school. 
And it seemed to me that intercourse with these 
little men clad in dirty hemp shirts and large 
felt boots, was pleasant and dear to me. 

And for all I know it might have been so. 
But why was it that before meeting Natasha I 
never visited the schools except when as a mem- 
ber of the Zemstvo I had to be present- at the 
examinations ? 


92 TOO LATE 

At the time this question somehow did not 
occur to me . . . 

When I was on my way home the weather was 
frosty and sunny. No trace remained of yes- 
terday ^s snow storm. Only in a few places, in 
the narrow village streets rose the glossy 
humps of snow drifts deposited during the 
night, and the newly cleaned, soft trail of the 
road wound in a novel, strange manner. Now 
it ducked under the very windows of the peas- 
ants’ cottages, now it rose and ran almost on a 
level with the roofs, now it suddenly made a 
sharp turn and unexpectedly led somewhere 
into a backyard. In, such places the horses 
would prick up their ears and thrust their heads 
into the road, the coachman would rise in his 
seat and strongly pull at the hempen rein. Men 
with spades were bustling around the cottages. 
At a distance, behind the snow drifts, only their 
bare heads were visible and it seemed as though 
they were buried in the snow up to their waists. 

There was less snow on the fields. The wind 
had swept it off the ice-glazed road. The sleigh 
glided lightly, and only at times running into the 
fluffy sand banks stretching across the road, it 
would jump up softly; the irritating creaking 


TOO LATE 


93 


of the runners would cease for a moment and 
my face would be scalded by the stinging snow 
dust. 

How light and gay everything seems in such 
weather ! 

How vigorous one feels ! 

Wrapped up in a warm dry fur coat and 
analyzing my impressions, it suddenly dawned 
on me that I was determined to insist upon re- 
building the Gorki hospital that very year. The 
rest of the time spent on my homeward journey 
I was reflecting upon the report which I had to 
submit at the next meeting of the Zemstvo. 

The report seemed to me so strong and con- 
vincing, that there was not the least doubt of 
its being approved. 

On my return home I told my wife in detail 
about my journey and at the same time flattered 
myself with my decision concerning the hospital. 
I knew she would praise me, and it pleased me 
considerably. 

I mentioned in passing the physician’s sister, 
‘‘a very charming girl,” in order not to keep 
anything secret from my wife. And I always 
used to do so, because it was more convenient. 

After all, I deceived my wife as well as my- 
self. 


94 


TOO LATE 


But, perhaps, she was happier than I for she 
died without having understood all my mean- 
ness. She loved me too well. Whenever I pre- 
tended to be interested in social activities, she 
would sympathize with me and would become 
enthusiastic over my plans more than I myself 
would. How often I followed her carefully 
thought-out and sincere advices! But I never 
admitted it to her. On the contrary, I treated 
her in such a way as to make her think that 
every time she interfered with my affairs — I 
felt displeased and disturbed. And she would 
modestly lower her large, kind eyes and change 
the subject of the conversation. 

Was she indeed unconscious of my little- 
ness? 

A month later the meeting of the Zemstvo 
took place, and it was decided to begin work on 
the rebuilding of the hospital at once. The 
building materials had to be stored up during 
the winter, and the work was supposed to begin 
in the spring. 

My visits to Gorki became more frequent. 

At the same time I arranged for Natasha’s 
appointment as teacher. Carried away by her 
work, and always absorbed in it, she became 
each time I saw her lovelier and more endeared 


TOO LATE 


95 


to me. Was there anything we did not discuss 
during those long winter evenings which I used 
to spend at Panovs ? 

How hotly we used to argue about educa- 
tional questions, about social activity and about 
literature. 

And strangely enough — was interested in 
her' views and listened to her attentively. And 
at night I would lie in her little, fcosy, warm 
room and recall her words, her voice. . . . 

Little Tanya was taken ill this morning and I 
have spent the whole day at her bedside. This 
morning her temperature rose above the normal, 
and her throat was affected. 

She lay in her little bed, all flushed, throw- 
ing about her bare arms and moaning. A few 
times she grew delirious, kept on calling Mama 
and telling her something. Misha was kept in 
the parlor but he escaped twice and rushed 
noisily into the nursery. 

Seeing my stern glance he would become 
abashed and leave the room bending his little 
back. 

The doctor came in the evening and diagnosed 
Tanya ’s sickness as angina. 

At present she is feeling better, — she is 
asleep. I sit in the adjoining room the door of 


96 


TOO LATE 


which is open and hear her quick, childish 
breathing. Just now I have recalled a trifling 
incident, which occurred recently, after Liza^s 
death. It was at twilight. I was sitting on my 
sofa and thinking of something. 

The children were playing in their room. 

Tanya wanted a pencil for some purpose. 

She ran tip-toe into my study and went over 
to my writing table. Taking a pencil she looked 
around and not seeing me made a sign of the 
cross over my bed. I called her over to me and 
began to tell her that she did a foolish thing. 
She began to cry. Only afterwards, when she 
ran out of the room, I understood that I acted 
meanly. The children are my real judges. All 
this time I have been trying to avoid them be- 
cause I fear them. And yet how dear they are 
to me ! If I but dared love them ! All day long 
I felt Liza’s presence so clearly that it seemed 
to me the door of her bedroom would open any 
instant and she would appear on the threshold. 

A few times I even trembled and turned 
around. 

And I know now that she is here, near me ; I 
see her loving eyes before me and I know now 
that I never loved anybody else but her. I re- 
call my infatuation with Natasha, I recollect 
how I thought at times I would be able to cross 


TOO LATE 


97 


my wife’s grave in order to find happiness with 
Natasha — and I do not feel like believing those 
were my real feelings . . . And yet it was so. 
I consciously dreamt about it. And all my 
dreams have come true. 

A great deal of my love for Natasha ‘‘took its 
usual course.” ^ 

“As usual,” we first became interested in 
each other, later we began to see something out 
of the commonplace in each other, which dis- 
tinguished us from other people; afterwards, 
again “as usual,” we began to believe in friend- 
ship, in pure love; finally came embraces, 
kisses . . . and all that was also “as usual,” 
unintentional, and unexpected. 

I am lying again. 

Could it have come unexpected to me? 

Since the first day of our acquaintance I be- 
gan to feel that we must fall in love with each 
other, and I did not attempt to avert it; on the 
contrary, I did all in my power to bring it about. 
I devised all means possible, towards one end, 
to entangle her and myself — and, I may say, I 
managed it all cunningly and cleverly. Under 
the mask of absorbing social activity I was en- 
abled to get rid entirely of every care of my 
family, and was spending almost all my time in 


98 


TOO LATE 


traveling and at Gorki. Due to my activity all 
the hospitals and schools of our district were 
brought into a most commendable condition and 
in many schools I succeeded in inaugurating hot 
^ luncheons for the children. 

Of course, I began with Natasha’s school. 

But can I possibly state with clear conscience 
that I was doing all that only because I loved 
my work? 

Did it not serve only as a pretext to meet 
Natasha more often and to show off with my 
work before her ? I remember how once, during 
the first year of our acquaintance I happened 
to come to Gorki and remain there for the 
night. 

Alexandra Pavlovna was not feeling well, the 
doctor went to visit his patients, and I spent 
the whole evening alone with Natasha. I had 
not seen her for a long time and I noticed that 
she was more than usually glad to see me. 

‘‘It is so nice of you to come to-night! I 
have been waiting for you,” she said, greeting 
me. “Petia will come home late. If my com- 
pany does not bore you. I’ll stay with you.” 

Was there anything we left undiscussed that 
memorable evening? I remember it well, be- 
cause it was the boundary line where it still was 
possible to stop, but I did not, and went fur- 


TOO LATE 


99 


ther . . . While talking we sat side by side on 
the divan, and my hand slipped unintentionally 
and touched hers. I immediately jerked it back 
and moved away from her. 

But it was too late. 

We both felt the spark of this first touch 
and silently exchanged glances. 

Probably she, too, understood the significance 
of this glance, for long after it we avoided to 
look at each other, and our conversation lagged. 
Was it not a warning? Did I not know after- 
wards what it was leading to? At night when 
I was alone, I recalled the touch and the thought 
ran through my mind that it was necessary to 
escape, to save her and myself before it would 
be too late, but I succeeded immediately in get- 
ting rid of this thought and fell asleep with the 
pleasant consciousness that Natasha was under 
the same roof with me and that to-morrow I 
would see her again and talk to her and, mainly, 
greet her and press her hand. 

The next morning I found out that Natasha 
was preparing to go to the city and I offered to 
take her there in my carriage. She accepted 
with enthusiasm, and we set out. 

Sitting side by side in the carriage I de- 
lighted in her naïve, childish joy and was unable 
to take my eyes off her. She watched like a 


100 


TOO LATE 


child every movement of the horses and smiled 
all the time. And when Ivan let the troika run 
by itself on the even stretches of the road, she 
would lean back in the carriage and remain 
motionless. 

I looked at her immobile, unblinking eyes, at 
her high, heaving bosom and at her passionate 
half open mouth from which were gleaming her 
closely set, white teeth and she seemed to me 
new and alluring. . . . 

How lovely she was that day! I had never 
before seen her so pretty. 

‘‘Why do you look at me so queerlyT’ she 
asked. . , . 

“Because you are so pretty to-day. Give me 
your hand.’’ 

“No, don’t, for God’s sake, what for? It is 
better so . . 

But I could not restrain myself any longer. 
I took her hand, rolled up the glove and kissed 
her wrist. And I admired the frightened ex- 
pression on her face and her guilty smile when 
she was saying all absorbed in herself : 

“Why are you uoing it? Don’t! You have 
a family. We shall stop at this. Yes, for 
God’s sake ...” 

I did stop, for just as long as was required 
in order to advance afterwards and be surer of 


TOO LATE 


101 


attaining my end. I showed her I was a moral 
man and that I was able to restrain myself. 
Afterwards I held her hand in mine many a 
time, caressed it, and touched it with my lips 
without kissing it. . . . 

And after a few meetings I again kissed her 
hand, and then I dared more and more ... I 
excited her nerves and her curiosity, and when 
she implored me with her inborn straightfor- 
wardness to take pity on her ‘‘because she was 
not made of stone,” I played on her compassion 
for me and frightened her by saying I would be 
unable to hear being parted from her. . . . 

At the same time I consoled myself with the 
thought that I could have taken from Natasha 
much more than she was giving me and that I 
was sparing her. And finally when I brought 
her down to giving herself to me entirely, I my- 
self restrained her, because I knew that her 
honest, unsullied soul would not survive the 
disgrace of falling. I took from her all that 
was possible to take and, again as in my youth 
with all those Varias and Lizas, I restrained 
myself at the very threshotd and preserved both 
her purity and mine. I did not spare her bash- 
fulness — I compelled her to live through the 
torments of the most distressing inner struggle, 
I compelled her to deceive her old mother, to 


102 


TOO LATE 


whom she never had lied in her life, and what 
did I give her in return! 

I gave her a great deal. Once she asked me 
to come and began to tell me that she could not 
continue living like that, that she could not 
bear any longer the eternal deceits, the pangs of 
conscience, and that it would be better for us to 
part forever. Without stopping to think for a 
single moment, I told her that I understood her 
fully and was going to divorce my wife and 
marry her. 

I shall never forget the frightened expres- 
sion with which she gazed on me. 

It was the horror before the abyss of happi- 
ness which suddenly opened before her and 
about which she had never dared dream. — And 
she threw herself into it with all her being, but 
at that very moment she made an effort over 
herself and said in a calm voice: ‘‘No. You 
know yourself that one can not become happy 
by depriving some one else of happiness. Why, 
then, talk like that!’’ 

And I was offering her a great sacrifice, was 
I not! I, a moral monogamist, an exemplary 
family man — ^was offering to break up my fam- 
ily for her sake. Could there have been a 
greater proof of my love for her! There was 
only one thing Natasha was not aware of then, 


TOO LATE 


103 


— she did not know that I would never have 
uttered those words to her had I not known be- 
forehand what her answer would be. I believed 
in her spiritual strength, and I was not mis- 
taken. She saw that I was heading for a preci- 
pice and tried to restrain me as best she could. 
Had I only listened to the dictates of her 
heart ! 

Perhaps it still would have been possible to 
save ourselves. But I did not feel like return- 
ing to my family, and was sinking deeper and 
deeper. 

Many a time the question comes to my mind, 
did I love Natasha? What has become of the 
feeling which turned my life upside down? 
Where is it now? Why is it that after my 
wife’s death I have not felt even a single time 
the desire to see Natasha? Does it not mean 
that I never thought of her as a friend, not even 
as a human being? In other words, it was only 
cheap and vulgar sensuality. 

Is it possible? I recollect now that I never 
was entirely happy with Natasha. There al- 
ways existed something between us that dis- 
turbed us, something we could not trespass. It 
must have been her conscience. And I had to 
violate this conscience all the time. Many a 


104 


TOO LATE 


time I would find her cold, reserved and any- 
thing hut affable. And I had to force her will 
and torture her highly strung nerves in order to 
make her respond with a caress. And yet she 
never said “thou^’ to me and never called me 
‘‘hers.’’ We made a few attempts to part for- 
ever. There were long, tormenting intervals 
during which we avoided meeting and seeing 
each other for long lapses of time. I would 
visit the hospital, inspect the buildings, give 
orders and leave without seeing her. 

All this was very tormenting. 

I recall how once, after such a separation, we 
happened to meet in the hospital garden. At 
first we were so confused that we forgot even 
to greet each other. I saw how her eyes began 
to blink and tears appeared on her eyelashes. 

“You won’t believe how happy I have been 
all this time,” she said, lowering her eyes. 
“Let us not spoil it. To think that I have not 
lied nor felt any pangs of conscience! You 
yourself know how bad we feel after misbehav- 
ing. When I don’t see you I love you still more 
because I know how hard you struggle and I 
am grateful to you. And afterwards maybe 
you, too, will feel better; yes, you will.” 

I stood facing her, leaning against a tree and 
kept still ... I was afraid to speak because I 


TOO LATE 


105 


felt that my lips were trembling. All of a sud- 
den she bent down and kissed my hand. 

^‘Don% don^t be so agitated, dear. I can’t 
bear to see you suffer so greatly on my account. 
Is it not better that we restrain ourselves and 
do not sink? Are they so absolutely necessary, 
those kisses, those caresses? ...” 

‘^Of course not, I, too, appreciate your pure 
love ... I want nothing else, but to see these 
eyes, this hand ... I myself feel bad when I 
realize that I sully you with passion. Forgive 
me. ...” 

I do not know what else I said to her. In such 
moments it seemed to me that my love for her 
was pure and the belief in my own words used 
to fill me with self-admiration and tears. . . . 
And right there on the spot, immediately after 
those words were spoken, I would sink still 
deeper, rudely dragging her with me. And the 
purer my love seemed to me the more madly 
would flare up afterwards the basest manifesta- 
tions of passion. And we would part like ac- 
complices in a crime, in silence, without daring 
to look at each other, full of disbelief and dis- 
dain for ourselves. 

Once Natasha happened to ask me why I had 
not had any children for a long time. I told 


106 TOO LATE 

her of my wife’s illness and of the doctor’s 
warning. 

‘‘It’s a pity, I’m so fond of little ones. 
Maybe if a child were born to you it would at- 
tach you to your family and it would be easier 
for you to forget me. Honestly, I ’m not worthy 
of your love. After all, we’ll have to part 
sooner or later. ...” 

I do not know why, but this conversation took 
possession of my mind. Whether it was the 
impending parting with Natasha or something 
else, but that very evening, on my return home 
I told my wife that I felt lonely without babies, 
that I loved to hear them cry at night, and that 
if not for her illness I would have welcomed a 
new child. 

It appalls me to tell about it. . . . 

I never knew that a human being could be so 
disgusting. But — further, further to the very 
end. If I stop here I shall not tell every- 
thing . . . And all through that night I caressed 
my wife, kissed her and told her I loved 
her. . . . 

Did she know about my infatuation with 
Natasha? 

Of course she did. Can a loving wife help 
knowing, when her husband loves another 
woman? Did she not notice how I sat on the 


TOO LATE 


107 


divan in my study for days at a stretch, my 
eyes fixed on one spot, without reading, without 
speaking and, perhaps without thinking? 

And, then, my repeated visits to Gorki. . . . 

Whenever I assured her that I was interested 
in the hospitals and the schools she wished to 
believe me, but I do not think she could. 

And now I know that she understood every- 
thing. I must have been blind not to have 
noticed it then. I shall never forget that night, 
when lying in the arms of a woman who gave 
me her life, I 'was whispering the name of an- 
other, the road to whom she facilitated for me, 
consciously and voluntarily. 

And I also reasoned then — I remember it. 
I argued with myself that the physicians must 
have been lying, that it was natural to live with 
one^s wife, and that whatever is natural must 
not lead to death and that all precautions 
against childbirth were immoral — and Na- 
tasha’s words about babies came to my mind. 
I also thought that perhaps I was killing my 
wife — but I dismissed that thought — because it 
was the only true one and I was afraid to ad- 
mit it. . . . 

And for nine months I had been attempting 
to deceive myself until the catastrophe came, 


108 


TOO LATE 


and no lie could save me any longer. If slie 
were conscious that she was doomed to die — ^who 
knows what she had gone through during that 
time? — I never heard her reproach me, I never 
saw a tear which would have shown me she 
realized her situation. All I saw was that she 
redoubled her tenderness to myself and to the 
children, that she never got angry with anybody 
during that time, and I understood that she was 
a saint. It is not worth while to recall the 
lucid intervals when I pitied her — there were 
too few of them to expiate all that she had given 
me. I remember how, during her illness, I 
availed myself of the minutes when she sank in 
a heavy, oblivious sleep, in order to gaze at 
her and kiss her hands, because I dared not 
speak to her of my love when she was conscious. 
I knew she would not believe me. How often 
did I feel like approaching her and telling her 
all — the whole truth. 

Was it better? I do not know. At last that 
very disease came which had doomed her to 
death. I was not in the house at the time and 
they ran to the garden to call me. Eunning up 
the staircase I met the doctor. He wore a 
troubled expression and told me that there was 
very little hope; that my wife was in grave 
danger. 


TOO LATE 


109 


I went to her room. Her head high on the 
pillows, she was breathing heavily and petting 
Tanichka^s light hair. I bent down and kissed 
her on the forehead. It was still wet with per- 
spiration. 

She gazed thoughtfully into my eyes, smiled 
with a smile which was new to me and drew me 
toward herself. 

Did she see my tears at that moment ? 

What does it matter now? 

The tears of an executioner who became 
afraid of his victim. . . . 

And I ran out of the room on tip-toe. 

And then the death struggle came. At times 
she would lose consciousness. Then she would 
regain her senses, open her eyes and seek me. 
So it went on until she fell asleep forever. . . . 

To this day I see before me those deep, for- 
giving eyes, and to this day I fear to speak her 
name, for I love only her and have never loved 
anybody but her. . . . And I could not have 
loved. . . . 

It is all clear to me now. . . . 


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ONE SCOUNDEEL LESS 


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ONE SCOUNDEEL LESS 


It was in the middle of June. An intolerable 
heat ravaged the country. The crops, not as 
yet in their full bloom, were fast perishing, 
scorched by the rays of the burning sun. A 
second hunger year was in prospect. 

I say hunger-year,^^ for thus it was called 
by the peasants who starved, by that part of the 
land-holders who came into close contact with 
the peasants and by a part of the press — ^which 
opened funds for the ^‘starving’’ peasants in 
their various editorial offices. The rest of Eus- 
sia either ignored the hunger altogether, or 
looked on it as a more or less serious deficiency 
of crops. For the amelioration of these condi- 
tions, various means were adopted, all depend- 
ing on the man who at the time happened to be 
at the head of the country government. Por- 
tions of the corn-reserves were distributed, help 
was given out of the funds of the Eed Cross, 
or loans were made out of the reserve-capital 
by the Zemstvo or the government. 

The succor was given not in accordance with 


114 ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 


the locality where the need of the population 
was greatest, but depended on the Ukase’’ of 
the various authorities — the governors, leaders 
of the nobility, captains of the Zemstvo, aider- 
men and the like. It frequently happened that 
in the same county (coyezde) the peasants of 
one section were recognized as in dire need and 
were accorded the necessary loan, while the 
peasants of an adjoining town, though coping 
with the same difficulties, were denied all help, 
and only after great efforts were allowed to take 
corn from the barns which they themselves had 
filled. 

Those who maintained that there was no fam- 
ine were right, for nobody actually died of 
starvation. They continued to live, no matter 
how wretchedly. If at some places the typhoid 
fever epidemic assumed unusual proportions, it 
was argued that it had always existed. If chil- 
dren were underfed and grew up crippled for 
life by rickets, it was again pointed out that this 
had always been the case. If the peasants had 
nothing to feed their stock with and sold their 
cows or killed their horses by the hundreds 
merely for the hide, it was pointed out to them 
that they should thank God for having some- 
thing to sell! Others even went as far as to 
naively advise the people to eat meat instead 


ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 115 


of bread as it was cheaper and more nutritious. 
In a word, although almbst all admitted that the 
conditions of the people were worse than ever 
before, some held that the people were hardened 
and tough enough through habit to meet any 
situation, while others claimed that the hard- 
ships had reached the limit of the impossible 
and maintained that help was indispensable. 

The county of Ch was divided into two 

different parties, one calling itself the ‘^Con- 
servative Party,’’ the other the “Liberal 
Party.” Unfortunately where such divisions 
exist, a social program is for the most part en- 
gaged in on a personal basis and so becomes a 
political issue for the contending parties. 

This soon became evident in the matter of 
recognizing or not recognizing the hunger in the 
county. As soon as some representatives of 
the Liberal Party deemed it necessary to give 
succor to the worn-out people and opened a sub- 
scription of private contributions for the starv- 
ing peasants, the Conservatives at once arose 
in opposition, and with an unusual passion com- 
menced arguing that help was not only unnec- 
essary, but might produce an altogether injuri- 
ous effect by keeping the people from useful 
work. 

It is possible, nay certain, that had there been 


116 ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 


no division of parties, the majority would have 
recognized some form of help as indispensable 
and the people would at least have been fed. 
But now, since the Liberals recognized the ex- 
istence of hunger, the Conservatives refused to 
recognize it at all, and a fight arose, in which 
the contestants were the social workers while 
the hungry peasants were its innocent victims. 

Owing to the fact that one party exaggerated 
in one direction and the other party felt bound 
to exaggerate in the opposite direction, the re- 
ports of the Zemstvo captains, of whom two 
were Liberals and three Conservatives, pre- 
sented such a maze that one could not help see- 
ing absolute famine in some centers and unpar- 
alleled prosperity in others. In accordance 
with these reports a loan was granted out of 
the Zemstvo capital to only ten districts of the 
county, while the slightest help was completely 
denied the remaining districts in spite of their 
continued protestations and entreaties. 

The peasants could not help but see injustice 
in all this, and along with the growing want 
there grew a hidden hate towards their com- 
placent and cruel landlords. 

Peter Kiruchin had spent the night at the 
night-watchers. When he approached the vil- 


ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 117 


lage on horseback, the sun had not yet risen, but 
from the chimneys of the huddled houses, 
pillars of smoke lazily ascended and one could 
see that the simple dwellers of the village were 
already awake. 

During the night Peter had fed his horse par- 
ticularly well, for he was planning to that day 
call on the Zemstvo captain who lived about 
twenty versts away. He was not looking for- 
ward to the journey with any pleasure, and so 
for some days had kept on postponing it. A 
month ago he had believed in the possibility of 
obtaining official help, and he had visited every 
governmental office, from that of the alderman 
to that of the nobility leader, but these authori- 
ties were all conservatives and, though Peter 
had never heard this word, he none the less felt 
the force of it ! He no longer had any faith in 
appeals for government aid, and during the last 
month had sold everything he possessed to get 
money for his small family needs. 

Now he again found himself destitute, with 
no bread for himself nor his family. There 
were still two linen sheets left that could be 
pawned, but Matrena, his wife, clung fast to 
them, and in order to get her to part with them, 
he had to resort to the very last means, a sec- 
ond visit to the Zemstvo captain. She had 


118 ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 


insisted on it. Matrena could not understand 
why the peasants of the neighboring district re- 
ceived a loan ; why the shoemaker at Lvashkin, 
who was a drunkard, received three ponds of 
flour, every month, while Peter, who was a 
sober, hard-working fellow, had to starve. 
Peter had grown stolidly accustomed to this in- 
justice, but Matrena complained about it con- 
tinually. 

Every day Peter had to listen to these grum- 
blings, and had to bear up as best he could while 
she gave him a thousand reasons why she ought 
to be helped. Endlessly she kept repeating the 
things which, according to her opinion, Peter 
ought to tell the Zemstvo captain. Peter had 
finally yielded to silence her, and to-day he was 
again going to repeat the disagreeable task of 
seeking government help. 

On reaching home, Peter went, as soon as he 
had attended to his horse, into the house. On 
the bench sat a fair-faced, golden-haired boy of 
about eight years, who was fretfully rocking a 
cradle. 

“Where is mammal’ asked Peter. 

“She is out milking the cow.’’ 

“Vaska, go open the gates and chase out the 
cattle.” It was Matrena speaking, and she 


ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 119 


soon came through the doorway, carrying a pail 
of warm milk. 

Vaska fetched his cap, and with the speed of 
an arrow, ran into the yard, glad of his free- 
dom. Matrena, covering the pail with a cloth, 
placed it on the bench, and went over to the cra- 
dle. 

‘‘What are you waiting for!’’ she said, turn- 
ing to Peter. “We’ll soon finish the last crust, 
and that will be the end. We have already 
eaten up the sheep. What have we left now? 
Go to the captain, I tell you. What’s the use 
of waiting any longer?” 

“Confound you with your captain! You 
have not seen him, but I have. It is no easy 
thing to talk to him. He came out, and began 
to holler at us : ‘ Ah, you lazy things ! When 
there is work to do you can’t be found, but you 
are here all right to take the money for loafing. ’ 
I would like to ask him : ‘ Who is working any- 
way?’ Not he, I’m sure. And how can any 
one work now? The other day I went out to 
plow the field, but it was impossible to touch 
the soil. I’m sure he isn’t any better oft with 
his own plows. Besides, they want me to dig 
no less than nine furrows on each sazhen (three 
yards). Get me the sheets, I tell you. I will 


120 ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 


go to him, but if I don’t succeed I’ll go to the 
city. For the two sheets I can surely get three 
pouds (120 pounds) of flour. You don’t want 
me to sell the cow, do you?” 

‘‘The linens,” grumbled Matrena, taking a 
pot full of boiled potatoes off the stove. “We 
have eaten up everything; we are worse off 
than beggars. Why do others get monthly pay- 
ments? Look at the Lidorskis, or at the 
Khommtooskis. Every month they go with 
their bags to the mill. And what is the matter 
with us? Do we belong to a different Czar?” 

Paying no attention to the grumblings of his 
wife, Peter sat down to the table, took a potato 
out of the pot and began peeling it with his 
enormous hook-like fingers. 

A herd of cattle stumbled by the window, rais- 
ing clouds of dust. Vaska came running in, 
stopped against the table, crossed himself and, 
trying in all his movements to imitate his 
father, sat down to the table for breakfast. In 
the cradle the baby got uneasy, and was about 
to begin crying, but a nipple filled with chewed 
bread bought his silence. 

The light in the house grew brighter. It was 
the beginning of another long, hot June day. 
Peter knew that the Zemstvo captain was not in 
the habit of getting up early and was therefore 


ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 121 


in no hurry. Placing Vaska on the horse, he 
sent the two to the river so that the animal 
might quench its thirst, while he himself was 
oiling the cart. 

About nine o’clock Peter reached the estate 
of the Zemstvo captain and, along with other 
petitioners, waited for his coming out. 

Nicolai Ivanovitch Gayevsky got up in an 
abominable mood. And to make matters worse, 
there followed one unpleasantness after the 
other. The cotfee was served him with cream 
that was sour. 'When he asked the reason, he 
was told the separator was broken and had not 
worked for two days. There was nothing left 
but to chastise the dairymaid and to send the 
separator to Moscow for repairs. Besides, 
during the night the horses of some peasants 
had broken into his garden and destroyed the 
whole patch of cauliflower. Now two women 
were waiting to ask his forgiveness. 

By the time Nicolai Ivanovitch went out to 
the petitioners he was in such an irritated state 
of mind that he had already decided to chase 
out the whole bunch, rejoicing at the bottom of 
his heart that this time he had real cause for 
being angry. 

Petitioners visited him every day. At the be- 


122 ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 


ginning he earnestly regretted their lot, atten- 
tively listened to their complaints, promised aid 
and sometimes even gave it. But after he had 
joined the Conservative Party, quite imper- 
ceptibly to himself, he changed his opinions, and 
began to think that after all the need of the peo- 
ple was not as great as he had imagined. And 
when his manager, Mironov, started complain- 
ing to him that one peasant did not take out the 
manure, that another one did not finish plowing, 
while a third one took the deposit and never 
returned, Gayevsky more and more justified his 
indifferent attitude towards the people and 
grasped every occasion that helped to kill com- 
passion in him or to provoke his resentment to- 
ward the petitioners. 

This was also the case this morning. The 
dairymaid had spoiled the separator, the horses 
had trampled down the cauliflower, yesterday 
trees had been felled in the forest, the day be- 
fore yesterday something else had happened — 
and all on account of these scoundrels, who em- 
bittered his life and who ought to be chased out. 

Which he promptly did ! All those who came 
to ask for help he rejected, making it plain that 
no help was to be expected. The women who 
came to ask regarding the horses he sent to the 
manager, while the rest who came concerning 


ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 123 


matters judicial he sent to the clerk. Peter did 
not get a single word with him, and, muttering 
to himself, turned homeward. 

But Gayevsky felt no inward echo of Peter’s 
curses. Besides the fact that he had nothing to 
tell these people who came to him for relief, he 
simply had no time. Towards evening he had 
to he at a birthday party given by Zarubin, the 
leader of the nobility, who lived twenty versts 
away, and till then he had lots of work to do. 
He had to be at the stable, in the garden and 
especially in the field, where he was to experi- 
ment for the first time with a new plow A. Z. D., 
which was imported from abroad and which was 
recommended to him by one of his neighbors. 
He wanted by all means to see how the plow 
worked that he might boast of it before the 
gathering at the party. 

About five o’clock he ordered the horses 
hitched and started. It was still hot and the 
driver rode slowly, lashing the horses to greater 
speed only when they passed a village. While 
passing the last of these villages not far from 
the estate of the leader, a new unpleasantness 
occurred. Some boy running across the street 
fell down and the wheel of the carriage ran right 
over him. Nicolai Hvanovitch wanted to stop 
to see what had happened and shouted to the 


124 ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 


driver to halt, but the driver did not heed him. 
Looking back, Gayevsky was only in time to see 
some woman run out of a house and carry a 
golden-haired boy away. 

Gayevsky could not make out whether the boy 
had been run down or whether he merely fell, 
but when he approached his destination he felt 
somewhat uneasy. 

A large crowd from all parts of the country 
gathered on that day at the leader’s. All the 
members of the Conservative Party deemed it 
their duty to visit their spokesman. The num- 
ber of guests usually indicated the vote at the 
ensuing provincial and electoral sessions. 

The traditional birthday cake graced the table 
all day dong. Around it there stood bottles con- 
taining the choicest of wines. There were also 
two small decanters of ancient cut glass, jocu- 
larly named Yasha and Petjka. In spite of the 
indissoluble chumminess of these twins, who 
were always together, they were dreadfully jeal- 
ous of each other. When one was drunk out of, 
the other felt mortally offended. When the 
first was sent to the buffet for reenforcements, 
the second would delight in the popularity he 
had gained. The first, returning full of new 
vigor, and seeing his rival being so entertained, 
had to in turn become the aggrieved, until his 


ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 125 


rivaPs strength waned. So they had alterna- 
tives of joy and anguish. On such days as this 
the rivalry of the twins intensified and almost 
reached a climax! 

Nicolai Ivanovitch greeted the host and the 
guests, lit a cigarette and joined at the luncheon 
table a group of persons who were engaged in a 
heated discussion. A young man with honest 
and open face, whom Gayevsky had not seen 
before, held the center of the group. 

“But, gentlemen, it is not fair to take and 
give nothing. We exact of them labor and 
work, we demand of them honesty, we present to 
them the highest ethical claims, and what do we 
give them in return? You say, they are well 
fed ; however, I as a physician can tell you that 
half of the diseases of the peasantry result from 
had food and poverty. I am entrusted with an 
infirmary ; they expect good work of me, hut is 
it possible to accomplish anything under the 
conditions of destitution and barbarity? Truly, 
I am getting discouraged.’’ 

“Gentlemen, won’t you please have some- 
thing?” interrupted the host. “Mr. Gayevsky, 
how about it? Yasha, you know, is very anx- 
ious; won’t you have some cake, with cabbage 
and mushrooms? I followed your conversation 
closely. You’re young yet, doctor, young! 


126 ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 


What you demand is all very well, but try it 
once; schools, hospitals. . . . This is not Mos- 
cow, you must understand. Just try to increase 
the provincial tax by five copeks and you’ll 
hear a new song. We ourselves shall soon have 
nothing to eat; so why talk of the peasants? 
Our fathers got along without these fads and 
fancies; they fed on swans, drank mead and 
choice wine, and everything was well. Now 
they all come with innovations. Gentlemen, 
please, something cooling! See how Petjka is 
getting fretful; he must not be offended.’’ 

After doing justice to the refreshments, the 
guests sauntered out into the park, where the 
young folks played tennis, then into the garden 
and the stables. Zarubin was considered a 
model master and he liked to boast of his house- 
hold management. 

During the season of horse breeding he would 
delight in telling the pedigree of each steed, in 
showing the distinguishing marks of every 
breed. Each horse was first walked with meas- 
ured step to the platform and then after the 
admiring observers had sufficiently feasted their 
eyes on it, it was made to run while the doctor 
and many others who knew nothing of horses 
and their breeds wondered at the alacrity and 
speed of the grooms. 


ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 127 


At the approach of evening all returned home 
and played whist a little till supper was served. 
Gayevsky found himself sitting next to the doc- 
tor. His other neighbor at the table was the 
local police captain, a buffoon and notorious 
cynic. He was a frequenter at Zarubin’s house 
and the twins, Yosha and Petjka, enjoyed his 
especial favor. He knew how to keep on good 
terms with both of them and they served him 
faithfully. 

All of this evening Nicolai Ivanovitch was 
somber and concentrated. The case of the boy 
constantly recurred to his mind and he was 
sorry he had not stopped his horse and ascer- 
tained what had happened to him. He tried 
several times to drive these thoughts from his 
mind, seeking to still his remorse by the thought 
that perhaps nothing had happened, that if it 
had, he was not to blame, but his conscience 
would not be lulled. Several times in the course 
of the evening, he wanted to talk about it to 
some one, but no opportunity presented itself. 
Either he thought that the person he was about 
to address would not take the proper attitude to 
the occurrence, and would assume that he feared 
the consequences, or it seemed to him that such 
a conversation would be out of place. 

At last, however, he decided that the physi- 


128 ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 


cian would prove responsive and determined to 
open his heart to him and even to ask him to 
pay a visit to the village and advise him of what 
had actually happened to the boy. 

A sense of false shame did not permit him to 
go straight into the matter. He approached the 
subject from afar, asking the doctor how long it 
was since he had been assigned to the hospital, 
what university he had graduated from, and 
then, as if unintentionally : 

‘‘You know, I had a perfectly ridiculous ex- 
perience to-day; I nearly ran over a lad in the 
village. The driver did not check the horses 
while a boy, as the devil would have it, was 
crossing the street. I think he was even caught 
in the wheel.” 

“Did that happen with you, too, Nicolai Ivan- 
ovitch?” asked the police captain. “Well, the 
rascals. How many times have I punished 
them for it, but still whenever anybody drives 
by they are always in the road. I will find out 
to-morrow whose boy it was and I will give him 
his due ; you may count on that.” 

“No, Vassili Petrovitch, please, don’t do that. 
I told the doctor of it because I fear I may have 
injured him, not because I want him chastised.” 

‘ ‘ Eh, why get disquieted Î A blow with an ax 


ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 129 


would leave him unharmed, and if you really 
did hurt him he deserved it well. There will be 
one scoundrel less in the world, thaCs all. 
You’d better empty your wine-glass; he who 
does not finish his goblet must have it filled 
again,” jested the police captain, panting and 
replenishing the glasses on his right and left. 

‘‘I will go home shortly and will stop on the 
way to look in,” whispered the doctor. “Tell 
me, where did it happen?” 

“On the hillock, near the first or second hut.” 

“Very well, I think I can find it. But tell me, 
is it possible that everybody here takes the same 
attitude to human beings as our neighbor? 
This is awful; life cannot be treated thus. I 
came into the country full of hope, the highest 
aspirations. It seemed to me that the country 
offered the best opportunity for work, and now 
I find one disappointment after another. You 
cannot imagine how heartbreaking it all is! 
And this famine, too ! Recently a patient came 
to me from the Vassilieff Volost and told of the 
plight of the people there. What horror, what 
indescribable misery ! ’ ’ 

The Vassilieff Volost formed part of Gayev- 
sky’s estate. The doctor did not know it. Un- 
der different circumstances Nicolai Ivanovitch 


130 ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 


would surely have taken issue with the doctor, 
but now he held his tongue and turned the con- 
versation into other channels. 

After supper the visitors began to disperse. 
Gayevsky was one of the last to leave. 

In crossing the village, Gayevsky noticed the 
doctor ^s horse standing near the home of Kiru- 
chin and bade the coachman stop. He no 
sooner opened the door and entered the hut than 
he felt that something terrible had taken place. 
He wanted to run away. He saw tragedy in the 
figure of the woman holding a babe in her arms, 
as she talked to the doctor; he saw it in the 
countenance of the doctor himself and he felt 
instinctively that there, on the boards which 
served as a bed, the victim of his speed was dy- 
ing. He feared to look. He wanted to shut his 
ears to the short moans, as sharp and as meas- 
ured as the strokes of a pendulum. He tried to 
turn his eyes away — but could not. At this mo- 
ment nothing and nobody existed for him but 
two creatures: himself, big, but helpless and 
weak, and this little curly head with inflamed 
eyes. 

The eyes of the lad looked straight before him 
and seemed to discern something new and seri- 
ous which he had not seen before. Suddenly a 


ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 131 


shudder ran through him and he uttered a loud, 
piercing scream. 

Nicolai Ivanovitch shook with terror. 

‘‘He is unconscious,’’ said the doctor, coming 
up to him and taking his arm. “Let us go; we 
are not needed here. ’ ’ 

When the door closed after them the doctor 
halted and said : 

“His condition is hopeless; he will hardly 
survive until morning. I could not examine all 
of his injuries, because each movement caused 
him unendurable sutfering. Apparently his 
chest is caved in and several of his ribs broken. 
I can do nothing. Those screams are the begin- 
ning of the final agony. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Can ’t anything be done ? ’ ’ 

“Hardly, but if you wish, I will call to-mor- 
row morning. But come now, let us go. You 
have to pass by my infirmary, and if you do not 
mind, I will ride with you.” 

The doctor saw the state of dejection Gayev- 
sky was in and he pitied him. He sought on 
the way to console him, and argued that he was 
as good as guiltless in this case and cited in- 
stances of a similar nature. Gayevsky listened 
and kept silent. A great complex idea, as yet 
undefined, but persistent and tormenting, was 
working in his mind. 


132 ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 


For the first time in his life he experienced 
complete helplessness. He was ready to re- 
trace his steps, to speak to that hapless mother 
and beg her forgiveness, but he felt he could not 
do it, that it would not be sincere, that he would 
not assuage her sorrow, that he might even en- 
rage her. To understand one another, human 
relations are prerequisite and that was exactly 
what he lacked. 

The doctor told him, casually, that Peter Ki- 
ruchin, father of the injured boy, had gone that 
morning to him for help, and Gayevsky remem- 
bered how that very morning he had driven all 
petitioners from his house. He vividly pic- 
tured to himself Peter’s return to his home and 
the hatred that would fill Peter’s soul. This 
feeling of the anger which he aroused in others 
had come to his mind often before, but he never 
had permitted himself to pay any attention to 
it. His part in life was to punish and to re- 
ward and he stood in no need of anybody’s 
indulgence. Now, however, when he craved the 
pardon of these very people whom he consid- 
ered immeasurably lower than himself, he felt 
he was not worthy of it. Deep in his heart he 
knew that if the boy should die, nothing could 
repay for his life. But he would not undeceive 
himself and he kept on thinking of how best he 


ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 133 


could make amends to the parents. At one mo- 
ment he would decide to give the father money, 
then he thought three acres of land would be a 
fairer recompense, and then again any otfer ap- 
peared to be inadequate; it was not the real 
thing. He came to no decision. 

At the hospital the physician left him, and 
Nicolai Ivanovitch Gayevsky went home alone. 
When he approached his house the day had al- 
ready dawned. 

Gayevsky undressed and laid down in his 
bedroom. He wanted to fall asleep, to escape 
from his torturing mind, to forget. ‘‘Morning 
is wiser than evening,’’ he concluded, closing 
his eyes; “to-morrow I will do something.” 
What that “something” would be he did not 
know, but he felt that something must be done 
and contented himself with the belief that it 
would be something good. 

“One scoundrel less”; the words of the police 
captain suddenly stabbed him like a knife. He 
remembered this officer’s pampered, liquor- 
flushed face and alongside of it he saw the fa- 
cial expression of the woman bending over her 
dying son, her features lit by the smoking lamp. 

He stood near her, saw her affliction and was 
unable to utter a single word of consolation. 


134 ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 


He hastened to escape, to avoid seeing her suf- 
fering and the pains of the curly-haired ‘ ^ scoun- 
drel’’ he had himself mortally injured. 

‘‘What horror! The fault is not so much in 
the fact that I ran over the lad; that is a mis- 
fortune, as in our whole attitude towards him 
and his kind. That is our crime. When the 
police captain said ‘one scoundrel less’ nobody 
even retorted ; I saw how our neighbors smiled 
at his charming witticism. If I did not share 
his feeling towards these people, I should not 
have gone away and left that woman alone. I 
cannot help the boy, but the mother I can, I 
must help. This is my chief and only duty and 
I dare not shirk it as a coward or a criminal 
would. ’ ’ 

Nicolai Ivanovitch arose from his bed, called 
in his servant and ordered him to get the horses 
ready. 

He quickly dressed and without waiting for 
the horses to come, went into the stable and left 
directly from there for the village. He did not 
know what he was going for, and he did not 
care. He felt that he must go, that he was do- 
ing rightj and this thought quieted him and gave 
him new strength. 

The morning was cloudy, and Nicolai Ivano- 
vitch felt chilly after a sleepless night. 


ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 135 

His carriage rolled noiselessly along the 
dusty roadway. Gayevsky tried to imagine 
how he would enter the hut, what he would say 
to the woman and what she would retort, but 
it did not work. In spite of all his efforts he 
did not even succeed in framing an opening sen- 
tence to relieve the embarrassment of his en- 
trance. At moments he would succumb to 
dread and false shame and was ready to turn 
back. But he knew the thoughts which would 
weigh upon his mind at home, and drove on. 

The nearer he came to the village the more 
frightened he grew at what awaited him. Peas- 
ants who passed him took off their hats and 
bowed low. He fancied they surmised the ob- 
ject of his trip and he turned his head aside to 
avoid their looks. 

At Kiruchin^s dwelling Gayevsky alighted 
from his carriage and, without glancing behind 
him, hastily stepped into the hovel. 

The first thing that he saw was the pallid, 
.waxen face of the dead Vaska lying with his 
head toward the Holy Image. Near the oven 
stood Matrena, talking with two other women. 
At the sight of the stranger she hastily covered 
her face with her apron and started to cry. Be- 
tween her groaning and sobbing it was impos- 
sible to make out what she said. Only single 


186 ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 


words were heard: ‘‘Darling . . . left me. 
. . But most of the sounds were quite im- 
possible to distinguish ; as likely as not she her- 
self did not know what she was uttering. 

Gayevsky stood and felt hot tears roll down 
his cheeks. Almost unconsciously he walked up 
to Matrena and in a quaking voice, which 
sounded strange and unfamiliar to him, blurted 
out, “Forgive me in the name of God; I am 
guilty.’’ 

Matrena quieted down for a moment, looked 
into his face frightened and then broke into an 
irresistible gush of tears and cries. 

Nicolai Ivanovitch stood over her, as she 
cried. He felt his own tears trickling down his 
face into his mustache and beard. He wept like 
a child and like a child was happy in his tears 
and would not stop their flow. He no longer 
paid heed to what people thought of him. He 
felt himself emerging from a shell which had 
held him tightly encased. Something clear and 
infinitely happy was filling his soul. He no 
longer feared to share the sorrow of this 
woman, for he felt it with all his inner self. 
And while she sobbed and told him how her son 
had suffered before he died, he looked at her 
with inflamed eyes and together with her lived 
through the awful night. At times when the 


ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 137 


tears blinded his eyes, he wiped them away, 
while the woman quieted and consoled him. 
From Matrena, Gayevsky learned all about the 
life of that family and listening to her narra- 
tion he felt himself growing closer and closer to 
her life. He wondered more and more how he 
ever could have harbored feelings other than 
compassion and love for these people. 

Months rolled by. 

The second famine year was more terrible 
than the first. As heretofore, the parties were 
engrossed in their campaigns, and in those 
places where the famine was not officially recog- 
nized the distress of the people reached extreme 
limits. 

Gayevsky sat in his study and looked over the 
lists of names of the peasants throughout his 
five volosts. There was a rap on the door, and 
the doctor came in. 

‘‘Nicolai Ivanovitch, I bring you good tidings. 
Your petition on behalf of the peasants has been 
granted and you will get ten carloads of fiour. 
The police captain told me that he will raise 
heaven and hell against you for spoiling the 
whole district and that he is going to denounce 
you to the Government.’’ 

“Don’t mind him,” rejoined Gayevsky, smil- 


138 ONE SCOUNDREL LESS 

ing at the doctor with a good nature he had not 
possessed in former days, ‘‘I cannot be angry 
with him. He served me a good turn once and I 
will ever remain grateful to him. Do you re- 
member the words that he said when I killed 
that unlucky boy last summer, that there would 
be ‘one scoundrel less in the world I never 
will be able to forget those words, for they 
made me realize what I had been until then. I 
am beginning now to believe that the world has 
indeed lost one scoundrel. But at what an aw- 
ful price!” 



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WITHOUT A NOSE 


It is a brilliantly illuminated salon, retro- 
grades elite is assembled; the ladies are in 
sumptuous evening dress that would make even 
Paris envious; the men in their swallow tails 
show that they, too, have fashions to watch, and 
that they have kept apace with them. 

I know that she will soon make her appear- 
ance here, and I am waiting with an anxiety 
that is delightfully painful. I cannot imagine, 
try as I will, how we will meet here in the 
presence of every one, after what transpired 
between us such a short time ago. It takes all 
the effort I can command not to betray my con- 
fusion. 

She enters with a light and even step, gor- 
geously beautiful; pure and irreproachable in 
her simplicity. I see ladies, under a mask of 
amiability, trying to conceal their jealousy. I 
see gentlemen respectfully kissing the gracefully 
chisled hand, the beauty of which even her long 
white gloves cannot conceal. 

She comes to me. She extends her hand with 

141 


142 


WITHOUT A NOSE 


the same indifferent smile, not a muscle of her 
face betrays the slightest disturbance or em- 
barrassment. How charming she is. 

I gaze at her and contrast this to what hap- 
pened half an hour ago. Half an hour ago, I 
entered her boudoir. She was but half-dressed ; 
her long black tresses were streaming over her 
bare shoulders. She was standing in front of 
her mirror; and as I opened the door, she saw 
my reflection. She threw up her head, and 
thrust her beautiful bare arms backwards, 
gracefully luring me into her embrace. 

* * Quick, quick. I have been waiting for you. ^ ’ 

I rushed into her arms and we were lost in 
the ecstasy of an eternal kiss. — Then I caressed 
her, I kissed her, . . . kissed her all over, and 
long, so long; we could not tear ourselves from 
each other. For a moment we would separate 
to gaze at each other’s intoxicated eyes, and 
then again and over again, our lips sealed the 
tempest of our passions. . . . 

And now she entered this reception room, 
majestic and pure, and this very hand, which 
has just been so passionately caressed by me, 
this hand is kissed as if it were one of a sacred 
deity. 

^^Oh, if you only knew, you foolish dressed 
up apes, who are worshiping her purity. . . .” 


WITHOUT A NOSE 


14B 


^ Suddenly, I know not why, this hand brought 
to my memory the history of a noseless beggar- 
woman, who had lately died in our village. 

What a wild comparison. . . . 

She was the daughter of a former serf, Ivan 
Suvoroff, who had served as a valet to my 
father, in his younger years. When yet a little 
girl, she used to come to our Manor to help her 
father in the pantry, and at the age of twenty 
she had grown to be a charming, gentle girl. I 
was a mere child then, and I can remember how 
I used to run around with her on the meadow 
in front of our house, playing ^‘hot and cold.’’ 
Even the whirlwind rustle of her skirts comes 
back to me; I can remember the delight with 
which I was possessed, when, making a quick 
turn, she ran towards me and grasped me with 
both hands under my arm-pits and lifted me 
high up into her arms. 

I patted her ruddy cheeks, I tossed her head 
hither and thither admiring her eyes, her even 
white teeth; I closely pressed myself to her 
elastic, panting breast. 

I remember even the fragrancy of her breath, 
a wholesome, pure breath. 

Then she disappeared somewhere, and I have 
never seen her since. I had almost forgotten 


144 


WITHOUT A NOSE 


her ; when one day after a lapse of some years, 
I entered our new church, and my gaze fell upon 
the Ikon of the Holy Virgin. I was amazed 
by its striking likeness to some one I could not 
remember. I stood before the pure image 
tenderly leaning over the Holy Infant, and won- 
dered where had I seen that face, that ex- 
pression of the features ? 

Suddenly it came to me, . . . ‘ ‘ Katya. 
Was it really she, or was it merely my imagi- 
nation? Was it possible that it was a mere 
coincidence? Or, perhaps was it that youthful 
half forgotten impressions are so pure, that they 
see in people only their abstract beauty? I 
wondered. 

I am forty years old now. Lately, taking a 
walk behind the barn, I met two old women, re- 
turning from the cemetery, their heads covered 
with white kerchiefs, and with them a peasant 
carrying a spade on his shoulder. 

‘‘Whom have you buried?’’ I asked. 

‘ ‘ Katherine, the noseless. ’ ’ 

“What Katherine?” 

“The beggar-woman, the daughter of the 
former Serf, Ivan. Well, Master, you hardly 
knew her, she was here so little. She lived 
mostly in Moscow.” 


WITHOUT A NOSE 


145 


Katya? Is it possible? My beautiful child- 
ish reminiscences, my dream. Pure, fragrant 
Katya, — the noseless beggar-woman. 

I followed the women, and bit by bit I gath- 
ered from them the following story: 

When our church was being built, a strange 
image painter came to the village, to paint the 
altar screen for the church. 

He became acquainted with Katya, and soon 
fell in love with her. So close did the attach- 
ment become that when he returned to Moscow, 
he took her with him. Fpr several years, until 
he died, she lived with him, acting as his model. 
At his death, she had to earn her own livelihood, 
and knowing no other trade, she continued to 
follow her vocation of a model. But her beauty 
faded all too soon ; she went astray ; the ground 
shook under her feet and she slid down the in- 
cline. It was the old, old story of the easy road 
of thorns. 

As long as her youth lasted she lived comfort- 
ably with never a thought of the morrow. 
Sometimes she had plenty of money, but she was 
not mercenary. She never saved anything, she 
gave all away. She was good and large 
hearted. Who knows, she might have gone 
astray just because of this goodness of her 
heart. She knew not how to refuse. 


146 


WITHOUT A NOSE 


When finally the evil disease seized her, she 
had no means to seek treatment, and she had to 
beg in the streets. The police soon found her, 
placed her in a public hospital from which she 
was discharged with the yellow ticket and a 
nose eaten away by the ravages of disease. 

Thus fallen, half decayed, and hungry she be- 
thought herself of her native village, and 
wearily she dragged herself back there to wind 
up her life’s journey. 

It was a Sunday, when she straggled into the 
church to offer her prayers. She had bought 
a penny candle and brought it to the Image of 
the Holy Virgin. Holding the candle in her left 
hand, she lifted her right hand to her forehead 
to make the cross; she raised her eyes and 
stared at the image. 

The choir sang, ‘‘The Song of the Cherubim.” 

The old woman stood petrified, her hand not 
finishing the cross ; she did not believe her eyes. 

To whom was she offering her prayer? 

For whom had she bought the candle, upon 
which she had spent her last penny ? 

From under the Silver Sacerdotal Vestment 
there gazed upon her, her own eyes, her own 
pure girlish face. 

Some features were so similar, so intimately 
familiar were the corners of the mouth, the 





WIOARILY SHE DRAGGED HERSEI.F BACK TO 
UP HER LIFE’S .JOURNEY. 


WIND 


Without a Nose') 



1 



WITHOUT A NOSE 


147 


wavy locks on the temples protruding from 
under the veil, and even the hand, that she could 
not stand her fright and she fell in a hysterical 
fit upon the stony steps in front of the altar. 

They lifted her up and carried her away. 

‘‘Klikusha,’^ ^ was all they said. There are 
such in every parish. 

Katherine lived but six months after, and 
every Sunday, every holiday, up to her death, 
she used to come to church and stand in the 
right hand corner near the choir in front of the 
Ikon of the Holy Virgin. 

She stood with a sinking heart and malevo- 
lently followed the people kissing her hand; she 
looked at them as they brought their infants 
after communion and made them kiss that hand. 

‘‘My hands, these very dirty, soiled hands, — 
you do not know whose hands you are kissing. 
Kiss, kiss — the hands of Noseless Katherine. 

“These hands were painted by my lover, 
Volodya, and with these hands I had caressed 
him, — caressed him all over, and I kissed him 
with this mouth, and he loved to kiss me upon 
these dimples of my cheeks and my eyes. 

“And then . . . whom have those hands not 
caressed. . . . Kiss, kiss. 

1 Klikusha is a Russian term for women suffering from reli- 
gious hysteria. 


148 


WITHOUT A NOSE 


The life of Katherine was now bent upon ac- 
complishing a few tasks before she died. 

All week long, this withered, soulless woman 
walked from house to house with a bag on her 
belt, and waited for the day, when there was 
service at the church. Then she felt revived. 

All the money she gathered during the week — 
sometimes considerable — she spent on candles, 
which she placed before the Ikon of the Holy 
Virgin. She started to embroider a towel for 
her. 

Just started, but did not finish it, for she died. 

‘ ‘ Frozen on the highway. ^ ^ 

She was placed in a coffin of thin planks and 
was brought to church for funeral service. 

She lay with her face towards the Ikon of the 
Holy Virgin, and instead of her eyes, the gap- 
ing hole of the fallen nose looked upward from 
the coffin. 

Some one approached and covered her with a 
shroud. 

Next Sunday, on the ninth day after Katya’s 
death I went to church, and placed a 10 copek 
candle before the Ikon of the Holy Virgin and 
kissed her pure, slender hand. 

This was before my departure for Petrograd. 


CHOLEEA 


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CHOLEEA 
Chapter I 


Andrei Afanasievitch Eazumov was return- 
ing from the district town, where at a special 
meeting of the Eural Council the question of 
combating the approaching epidemic of cholera 
was discussed. 

He was a provincial, small landowner, and 
this was the first time in his life that he took 
part in a matter of public importance. 

Two weeks previously, on receipt of the 
printed invitation from the President of the 
Council himself, he ordered his mistress, Masha, 
to wash and starch his white shirt, yellowed 
lying in the closet, whilst he himself looked over 
and cleaned his creased double-breasted coat, 
made about a decade ago in the Government 
town. 

On the eve of leaving he called the head 
laborer and coachman, Danilo, and instructed 
him to oil the harness thoroughly, wash the 
carriage, and to himself give a half-measure of 
161 


152 


CHOLERA 


oats to the two driving horses — a couple of 
home-bred, round stallions. 

It was Danilo also who trimmed Andrei 
Af anasievitch ’s wide spade-shaped beard and 
his curly gray locks that framed so comically 
his round absolutely bare head. 

In town, at the meeting, Andrei Afanasie- 
vitch felt exalted. He was met quite like a per- 
sona grata and was unanimously elected district 
sanitary supervisor. After the meeting he was 
invited to dinner at the Club. 

Before zakuska,^ when Andrei Afanasievitch 
was offered a tumbler of vodka, he at first at- 
tempted to decline, out of modesty, but the 
president of the nobility was so gently and 
kindly insistent that he could not withstand and 
it ended by his taking some, and even not quite 
moderately. . . . And now, having traveled on 
about 20 versts, he found that all the way, sit- 
ting in his wicker buggy, he was sleeping 
soundly and must have been wakened at some 
jolt. 

Looking round, he found that he was near 
home. 

The heat was subsiding. 

Danilo, loosening the reins, was sitting mo- 
tionless on his seat; his bowed back, clad in a 

iHors d’ceuvre. 


CHOLERA 


153 


black sleeveless coat, and his shaven neck were 
covered with a thick layer of dark, gray dust. 

The horses, partly blackened by the dust, 
were running at that quietly brisk trot, which 
in their experience just kept away the whip, and 
regularly, almost in turn, they waved their 
thick, plebeian tails. 

On both sides of the road the full grown rye 
was yellowing. 

About 9 ricks,’’ reflected Andrei Afanasie- 
vitch aloud, reaching in his pocket for a ciga- 
rette and lighting it. 

‘‘Were it not for the marsh, we could have 
made it more than 12,” remarked Danilo with- 
out emotion, lifting himself on the seat and ad- 
justing with the end of his whip a displaced 
strap of the harness on the side horse. 
“They’ll be commencing near town.” 

“The ground is better there, with the sand; 
here it will ripen in about two days, not ear- 
lier.” 

“Depends on the weather.” 

“Danilo, are there many oats left in the 
wing?” Andrei Afanasievitch asked suddenly. 

“You saw yourself, Andrei Afanasievitch; 
there are four quarters there.” 

“Then this is what you do : you take this over 
to-morrow to the barn. The wing I will turn 


154 


CHOLERA 


into a barrack. The feldsher ^ will live there. 
The dispensary and ambulance will be in our 
house, understand r’ 

‘‘And where will you put the pigs? And all 
the harness, ropes, and all the other goods?’’ 

“Where, where? Anywhere you like. Can’t 
you find place for all this in the closet upstairs? 
You can space off a corner in the barn, or in the 
house, in the closet. ’ ’ 

“Maria Gavrilovna won’t let you put it in the 
closet, and there is no room in the barn. The 
corn will ripen, and where will you put the 
seeds? You want to be left without seeds? . . . 
What will you do without seeds? . . . What 
need had you to start with all this cholera, what 
need . . . indeed?” 

“There, right away you talk like an unedu- 
cated fool,” Andrei Afanasievitch began, sen- 
tentiously; “you don’t understand. Do you 
know what cholera is? Cleverer people than 
you and I have thought of this thing. You 
should have heard what was said at to-day’s 
meeting; where it comes from and how to fight 
it. You see, a tiny little speck of cholera gets 
into the water or mud. ...” 

“I know. In the village a whole wall is plas- 
tered with these pictures. The masters have 

1 Assistant doctor. 


CHOLERA 


155 


nothing to do, so they think out all kinds 
of specks. We never had this cholera and 
wouldn’t have it. But it does not take long to 
call her in . . . not long at all. Where the doc- 
tors are, there is cholera. ’ Look at Spassky, the 
village coachman was telling of only the other 
day. There is a doctor there, two assistants, 
and the people die off. When we get the doc- 
tors, she will come to us, too . . . sure, she’ll 
come. ’ ’ 

‘‘That’s why we can do nothing with you, be- 
cause you are ignorant churls. You are being 
helped, doctored, and you still harp on your 
own. You don’t deserve to be cared for,” con- 
cluded Andrei Afanasievitch finally. 

Passing through the village of Nikolskoie, the 
horses turned sharply to the right, past the 
church, ran round the thicket of lilac and 
stopped near a small, double-log homestead with 
ornamented porch. 

Andrei Afanasievitch with serious mien 
alighted from the carriage and went up the 
steps. Stepping on the porch, he took off his 
wide-rimmed soft hat, and somehow became 
shorter in stature and more comical in appear- 
ance. Smoothing down his disheveled hair, he 
entered the dining room. 

From the adjacent room, the bedroom, there 


156 


CHOLERA 


came out to meet him Maria Gavrilovna, a soft, 
round-faced blonde. 

This Masha, ^ daughter of the dairymaid, was 
enticed by Andrei Afanasievitch about a year 
previously, and had been living in his house ever 
since. Like all women of the lower classes, 
when transplanted into better conditions with 
plenty of good food, she very quickly settled, 
grew lazy and became fat. 

Andrei Afanasievitch, by nature kindly and 
weak-willed, making pretense at power, yet ut- 
terly incapable of ruling, although he appeared 
to treat Masha strictly, and before onlookers 
even liked to order her about, was in reality 
quite under her influence and even feared her. 

The fact that she wa.s soon to bear a child, a 
matter to which she herself was quite indiffer- 
ent, was a source of the greatest embarrassment 
to him. Many times he had begun to think of 
how he should act when the child was born, but 
the problem seemed too difficult; he therefore 
postponed it from day to day, and thus it still 
remained unsolved. 

To marry Masha seemed to him inconvenient, 
primarily from self-esteem. How can he, Razu- 
mov, marry his servant girl? Whilst she was 
still his paramour, his chattel, in the position of 

1 Short for Maria. 


CHOLERA 


157 


a servant, who prepared tea for his guests and 
dared not even take a place at the corner of the 
table, he derived some pleasure in noting the en- 
vious glances his neighbors cast on her, and 
even took a certain pride in her. He experi- 
enced then the same feeling that the owner of 
a fine thoroughbred horse has when leading it 
out. For such occasions he ordered Masha to 
put on a fine dress and took inner pride in the 
fact that he pretended not to notice her. 

After that it seemed impossible for Andrei 
Afanasievitch to marry Masha, whilst to keep 
her in the house with a child seemed still more 
inconvenient. 

Only one way was left, the simplest way out 
— to put the child into a foundling institution. 

This thought, however, was repulsive to his 
whole being and never seriously entered his 
mind. He loved children so tenderly, womanly, 
and was so happy at the thought that to him, a 
man no longer young, would be born a son (most 
assuredly a son), that to give this son away into 
strangers’ hands seemed absolutely impossible. 

Thus it went on, without any decision, and 
‘Hor the time being” he only engaged the cook 
Arina to be in the kitchen, so that Masha should 
not have to work as hard as formerly. 


158 


CHOLERA 


After taking his tea, Andrei Af anasievitch 
made the round of his farm, took a peep into 
the threshing barn, where the men were making 
preparations, and went to bed early. 


Chapter II 


The next day, after sending out the men for 
the second plowing, Danilo went on to clean the 
wing. 

Harnessing the water-carrier “Golovasty’’ to 
the cart, he, first of all, removed to the barn the 
oats and the harness ; he then screened off a cor- 
ner near the stable for the pigs, put some straw 
in it and started pulling them in. 

All this he did without hurry, murmuring 
something under his breath in an assured and 
business-like manner. Catching the pigs by 
their hind legs, he dragged them two at a time 
across the whole yard to the new pen. 

They grunted and squealed, but he paid not 
the slightest attention, but carefully deposited 
them on the fresh straw and returned for some 
more. 

‘^Now, stay there and good luck to you, you 
dirty pigs,’’ was his parting remark, as he went 
on to do something else, ‘Ho-morrow you shall 
have a roof, too.” 

By midday the wing was all ready and two 

159 


160 


CHOLERA 


maids, hired for the day, their skirts tucked up 
high, were already scrubbing the greasy wooden 
floor, on which the dirt and mud of many years 
had formed a thick layer. 

The feldsher appointed by the Council ar- 
rived in the evening. 

Andrei Afanasievitch, who was anxious to 
play the rôle of benefactor, had given instruc- 
tions to invite the feldsher to him and had al- 
ready ordered Masha to set the table, but it ap- 
peared that the guest was so drunk that he could 
not even get out of the cart. He was picked up 
and put to bed to sleep it off till the morning. 

The old man who brought the feldsher was 
also tipsy. Unharnessing his horse and giv- 
ing it some food, he went into the servants’ 
room. 

It was supper time. The laborers were just 
coming in. Washing their hands from the 
spout of the kettle hanging over the basin, they 
seated themselves by the table. 

The old man was invited to join them. 

Questions arose on all sides, — ^who he was, 
where he came from, and whom he had brought. 

‘‘From the village ‘Dolgoie,’ ” explained the 
old man, “and this is the assistant doctor, Sidor 
Ivanovitch, named Gnidin. He was on the chol- 
era there. A good man, and no end of brains ; 


CHOLERA 


161 


but for bim, God bless him, I would not have 
escaped death; he rubbed me off. He likes his 
glass a bit too much, but what of that? There 
is the other feldsher, from the army, a good one 
at that, but not so good as this one, although he 
does not drink. 

‘‘And how can you keep away from the bottle 
in this blackness ? You can ’t ; it ’s cholera. ’ ’ 

“What is she like, uncle, this cholera?’’ sud- 
denly asked Seriezhka, a jolly, happy-go-lucky 
youngster, the best dancer in the village and the 
first to run all kinds of errands. 

“Wait until you get it, you rascal, and you’ll 
see what it is,” angrily replied one of the labor- 
ers. “He, too, needs must know what she is 
like. Eat and keep your tongue; ’tis none of 
your business/’ 

“How is it not mine? And what if in truth 
she comes here, what then?” 

“Then you will know. Now don’t poke your 
nose where you are not wanted.” 

Just then Danilo entered. With an unfavor- 
able side glance at the speakers and with an ear 
to what they were saying, he quietly took his 
seat and ate his food. 

There was a little hush in the conversation. 
In turn the men reached out to the steaming 
bowl, carefully holding the heaped up spoonfuls 


162 


CHOLERA 


over a piece of bread, so as not to lose any pre- 
cious drops of soup, and ate with relish and 
with noise. 

Danilo was held in esteem and no light or un- 
necessary talk was made in his presence by 
those beneath him. 

‘‘Well, you brought some . . . artist, — ’’ he 
remarked, just glancing at the old man side- 
ways, “an artist indeed.” 

“And what’s the matter with him? Is he 
bad ? We would not mind taking him back. ’ ’ 

“Wlio said bad? Too good, perhaps. With 
such a one, good friend, even cholera has no 
terrors; cholera herself would drown there, 
yes. . . .” 

“And what do you think?” replied the old 
man with spirit. “Yes, sure, she will drown. 
You see him drunk now, but once he starts, 
there is no other like him. Wait till she comes 
to you, then you ’ll talk. ’ ’ 

“The Lord save us. What’s to be done? 
This is the will of God.” 

“None of God’s. Too many people there are, 
that’s why the cholera came.” 

‘ ‘Now, you tell me this. Why is it that where 
the doctors are, there the cholera comes? 
Here, take our village, may the blessing con- 
tinue, we had none of it. And now I don’t 


CHOLERA 163 

know. They have brought this drunken devil 
and I fear she may come. ’ ’ 

‘‘How is it cured, uncle T’ again jumped in 
Seriezhka. 

“How? Quite simple. Drink wine and 
yoli^ll be well. Without wine, of course, you 
can do nothing. The body weakens, the spirit 
fails. And there is the end. She is afraid of 
wine.’’ 

“I see that she is afraid,” remarked Danilo 
gloomliy. “Brought a drunkard and himself 
no better. Get to bed, all of you, and you, Nico- 
lai, go to the wing; see lest that devil does not 
set us all on fire,” commanded Danilo, licking up 
his spoon and wiping the handle with the edge 
of his shirt. 

“It’s time to go to bed. Is everything ready 
for the field? To-morrow after dinner we may 
begin.” 

After supper the laborers still lingered a few 
minutes, exchanged a few pleasantries about the 
cholera and retired. 

The old man returned to his cart and there 
went to sleep. 


Chaptee III 


Danilovs gloomy forebodings came true even 
sooner than he himself anticipated. The very 
next day after the arrival of the feldsher a peas- 
ant died of cholera in the neighboring village, 
Lopashino, and in Nikolskoie a woman took ill. 

It was not yet known in the village that the 
feldsher had arrived, therefore the messenger 
ran to Maria Gavrilovna for some drops. He 
was directed to the wing, but took no heed and, 
saying nothing, went on his way. 

Some time later Sidor Ivanovitch heard of 
the case and, without further loss of time, 
jumped on the first horse he could see and at 
great speed arrived at the house even before 
the man returned. 

The woman was lying on a wooden bench 
moaning. The convulsions had subsided and 
her body was getting cold. A very old woman 
and two young children were hovering round 
her. A little girl with a black pitcher in her 
hand was giving her to drink, and a boy with 

164 


CHOLERA 


165 


only a shirt on, and no knickers, was standing 
listlessly watching the proceedings. 

Looking around, Sidor Ivanovitch immedi- 
ately ordered two women to start rubbing the 
patient. At the same time he found, goodness 
knows where, some bottles, which he filled with 
hot water and put at her feet and on her stom- 
ach. When the women grew exhausted, he 
would snatch out of their hands the rough cloth 
and rub the sick woman with such force that the 
skin grew fiery red and the poor woman 
screamed with pain. 

‘‘It’s nothing, dearie, nothing; just bear up 
a bit and you’ll be saved,” were his encourag- 
ing words as he applied greater and greater 
force. 

Towards the evening, the woman was better 
and the danger was passed. Sidor Ivanovitch 
gave her some drops and ordered the children 
not to leave the house till the next day; he also 
left instructions to collect the woman’s soiled 
clothes, and turned homewards. 

Passing a saloon, he bought a bottle of vodka 
and emptied it almost at one gulp. 

His horse had moved on and he returned 
home drunk, humming an indiscernible tune. 

Andrei Afanasievitch, who had not yet re- 
tired, was drinking tea on the porch. 


166 


CHOLERA 


‘‘Well, how goes it?” he asked, catching sight 
in the darkness of the returning feldsher. 

“She’ll live; must have some lime to-mor- 
row . . . for dis . . . disinfecting,” stammered 
Sidor Ivanovitch, smiling vaguely, “and must 
. . . b . . . burn the cl . . . clothes . . . but m 
. . . mustn’t . . . poverty . . . — ” 

Seeing that the feldsher was again drunk, An- 
drei Afanasievitch did not detain him but let 
him pass on to the wing. 

Going in to sleep, he made a mental note that 
when sending next to town he would certainly 
write to the Council and ask that Gnidin he re- 
moved and another one sent in his stead. 

Early next morning he went over to the wing. 
Sidor Ivanovitch was already up and dressed, 
and was mixing some medicines. 

“Am preparing the disinfectants,” he ex- 
plained, as Andrei Afanasievitch approached; 
“must go over immediately to my yesterday’s 
patient and disinfect the house and clothes as 
much as I can. Where can we get some lime? 
We have here other things, hut lime is the best, 
after all. I am going over there right away, 
and from there must run over to Lopashino. A 
man died there yesterday ; they did not tell me 
about it. Distinfecting has to be done there, 
too.” 


CHOLERA 


167 


Watching Gnidin’s serions face and listening 
to his business-like speech, Andrei Afanasie- 
vitch recollected thè spectacle he presented the 
previous night and the night of his arrival, and 
it was difficult to reconcile the two; was it one 
and the same man? 

The feldsher’s words were so full of confi- 
dence and in them he felt such deep conscious^ 
ness of duty that he was aware of a feeling of 
respect towards him. He recollected his last 
night’s thoughts and for the moment he was 
ashamed before this man. 

That night Gnidin was brought from Lopa- 
shine very late, again dead drunk. 

It appeared afterwards that he had disin- 
fected several houses, treated a patient and him- 
self washed and cleaned the clothes of the one 
that had died. 


Chapter IV 


The weather continued hot and dry. 

The rye was ripening quickly and beginning 
to drop, and from morning till night every one 
was in the field in order to gather it in time. 

The women came out to work with their nurs- 
ing infants, which they placed by the rick or 
under the cart. The elder children kept a 
watch on the youngsters and were also kept 
busy running for cold dinner, water and kvass.^ 

The dry weather increased stomach ailments 
and cases of cholera occurred more and more 
frequently. Sidor Ivanovitch was busy all day 
long running about the villages, never resting, 
often going without dinner, and still not able to 
accomplish half of what was necessary. There 
were occasions when he worked throughout the 
night and then he returned home sober, but most 
evenings he took stiff doses and went to bed 
drunk. 

His frequent cures and his bold and at the 


1 Home-brewed "cider. 


16S 


CHOLERA 


169 


same time kindly manner inspired the people 
with trust towards him; he was treated every- 
where with confidence and generally liked. 

With Andrei Afanasievitch ’s consent, he en- 
gaged a woman to help him and trained her for 
these duties. She often went out in his stead 
or was left to look after the dispensary. 

This nurse, a homeless soldier’s widow, Av- 
dotia, so quickly adapted herself to her new 
duties that the peasants trusted her no less than 
the feldsher himself and often came to her with 
diseases that had nothing whatever to do with 
cholera. 

Andrei Afanasievitch also etfected cures, but 
in his own way. 

He believed only in foreign imported medi- 
cines and in pepper-wine. 

Although he feigned great bravery, at bottom 
he was dreadfully afraid of the cholera and con- 
tinually picked up his courage with unaccus- 
tomed drinking. It came to such a pass that he 
drank surreptitiously, hiding from Masha. 

If anybody on the farm had any stomach pain, 
Andrei Afanasievitch immediately sent over a 
tumbler of pepper-wine, and only after that 
recommended the feldsher. Encouraged by 
this, nearly all of his men took ill almost daily ; 


170 


CHOLERA 


at first singly and then in groups they crowded 
near the house asking for ‘‘medicine/’ 

On one occasion Andrei Afanasievitch at- 
tempted to refuse. After dinner that day Da- 
nilo appeared and stated that the laborers were 
protesting and refused to go on with the work. 

“They are afraid of the cholera,” he added. 

Andrei Afanasievitch had to give in. 

From that time on the men received their 
glass twice a day, before dinner and before sup- 
per, whilst in the evening they often took a lit- 
tle extra ‘ ‘ on their own. ’ ’ ^ 

After a long day’s work returning to the serv- 
ants’ room they had songs, music on the con- 
certina, and Seriezhka danced, singing up-to- 
date ribald peasant couplets. 

The worst for Andrei Afanasievitch was 
when some one came to him asking for “some- 
thing, your honor, for the coffin.” 

This put him out terrifically. Still more so 
when it was women in white kerchiefs that came 
to beg. He had such fear of death that just to 
rid himself of any caller who might mention 
any one dead, he would immediately order Da- 
nilo to give four large boards, whilst he himself 
hastened to the sideboard to pick up his spirits 
in a glass. 

Lately these demands for wood grew more 


CHOLERA 


171 


frequent and insistent. Ail the boards on the 
estate were used up. The demand came for 
logs. There were plenty of these. No permis- 
sion was asked from the master. Danilo sim- 
ply distributed them. 

And finally they came for them even without 
asking Danilo. Sometimes also not for coffins. 

Every day corpses were brought into the 
church. The burials were quick, without any 
bell ringing, without the carrying out ceremony 
and without walking behind the hearse. Shal- 
low two-yard graves and transparent coffins 
were all that many a person got. There is no 
time to dig a deep grave and put together a 
tight coffin, when the corn in the field is uncut 
and ungarnered. 

‘‘The dead won’t mind; they are comfortable 
as it is.” 

The harvesting on Andrei Afanasievitch’s 
field was also progressing slowly. One whole 
field was still standing uncut and there were no 
women to bind the sheaves. After a consulta- 
tion with Danilo, Andrei Afanasievitch decided 
to appeal to the peasants to help him out “for 
vodka,” the more so as the next day was Sun- 
day when it is sinful to work for money. 

In the evening Danilo harnessed the horse 
and went through the village, returning home 


172 CHOLERA 

with the good news that the peasants had 
agreed. 

Early next morning Andrei Afanasievitch 
started out in his racing buggy. Placing in the 
bottom a good measure of pepper-wine, and, 
‘‘for any emergency,’’ taking the foreign medi- 
cine, he went to the fields. 

Work had already begun. Danilo had di- 
vided the reapers two to the acre and leading 
his horse, whip in hand, he walked around giv- 
ing orders. 

From amongst the high corn stood out the 
straight-haired heads and shoulders of the 
reapers; with every movement of the shoulder 
one could distinguish in the distance the clang 
of the sickle and the crisp sound as the har- 
dened straw fell to the ground. 

Andrei Afanasievitch rode through the field, 
amiably greeted the peasants and stopped off 
at some distance to have a smoke. 

“About twenty-five have turned out,” said 
Danilo, approaching; “some have backed out 
on account, they say, of the cholera and such 
things. ’ ’ 

“Have you brought the wine?” Andrei Afa- 
nasievitch inquired. 

“I have brought about five gallons; that’ll be 
enough for them; besides there’s also yours.” 


CHOLERA 


173 


‘‘Mine’s medicinal,” replied Andrei Afana- 
sievitch, stroking his bottle, “but perhaps we 
may add some of it to give a better taste.” 

Just then Danilo noticed a peasant walking 
towards them along the furrow. He was ad- 
vancing slowly, without a sickle. 

“What do you want?” inquired Danilo, as 
the man approached. 

“To your honor, Danilo Petrovitch, I was 
sent to say that Ivan Makarytchev over there is 
took bad.” 

“Where?” 

“Over there, under the rick.” 

“What’s the matter with him?” Andrei 
Afanasievitch was alarmed. 

“He is tossing about as in a fit and has turned 
blue all over.” 

“Get up behind on the buggy, and we’ll go 
over; you hold the bottle,” commanded Andrei 
Afanasievitch, gathering the reins and whip- 
ping up the horse. 

Danilo got on his horse and followed behind. 

The sick peasant was lying face down on the 
ground on the shady side of the tall, freshly 
made stack, surrounded by the other peasants, 
and moaned. Hearing the approach of the 
newcomers, he raised himself on his knees and 
listened. 


1T4 


CHOLERA 


His face had a forlorn and miserable expres- 
sion. The unwiped saliva was dripping down 
his beard and mustache. To his temples, wet 
with perspiration, stuck his thin yellow hair, 
from beneath which looked out a pair of color- 
less, tearful, bleached eyes. 

As his eyes fell on Andrei Afanasievitch, his 
moans increased. 

‘^Oh, good friends, I am dying ... oh, death 
has come ... oh, friends of mine. . . .’’ 

Andrei Afanasievitch alighted from his 
buggy. With trembling hands he reached in 
his pockets for the foreign medicine, poured out 
a measure without count, about 50 drops, and 
filled up the cup with pepper-wine. 

‘‘Well, Ivan, what’s the matter? Stop that 
howling; what are you, a woman? Here, take 
this ; it will pass away. Here, drink. ’ ’ 

“Oh, Andrei Afanasievitch, I can’t; my death 
has come.” 

“Here, you are told to drink; then drink, or 
you will indeed die.” 

“I can’t, master,” moaned Ivan, a little 
louder now. 

“Now, drink. You, boys, hold his head and 
pass me the glass,” commanded Andrei Afa- 
nasievitch. 

“Wait, let me lift myself. I may do it my- 


CHOLERA 


175 


self,’’ moaned Ivan, raising himself and wiping 
his mustache with his hand. ‘^Well, to your 
health.” 

‘‘To your health, to your health,” replied 
Andrei Afanasievitch ; “you will presently go 
on to reap, and just now you wanted to die.” 

Ivan swallowed his glassful slowly, in small 
gulps, and only after he had emptied it did he 
notice that the pepper-wine had burned his 
mouth and his whole inside. For a moment it 
caught his breath and there he sat with eyes 
bulging out. Then he sort of coughed, cleared 
his throat, took a bite of bread and started up. 

“That’s right,” said Andrei Afanasievitch, 
quite pleased with himself, “but rest awhile; 
you ’ll soon run, not only walk. ’ ’ 

A few minutes later he took up his bottle and 
rode hack to the field. 

When during rest-time the men had their 
round of vodka, Ivan Makarytchev took his 
glass with the others. 

There were several other similar cures of 
cholera effected by Andrei Afanasievitch. His 
pepper-wine did not so much cure as give the 
patients courage. ’Tis true, in some cases his 
medicine did not cure, but he avowed that that 
was because it was not taken in time. 


176 


CHOLERA 


The next day after the case with Ivan, Andrei 
Afanasievitch stopped in a field where a peas- 
ant woman was taken ill. Again he gave her 
his wine, and later on the feldsher attended her ; 
but she died towards the evening. 

Her death became known at the farm when 
some messengers came to Danilo for boards to 
make a coffin. 


Chapter V 

Death is terrible only to those who still await 
something in life and who take pleasure in it. 
And thus the other way too : the harder the life, 
the more indifferent is the attitude towards it, 
and the easier and less painful to die. In time 
of cholera, when death is all around and when 
every one feels its proximity, these two atti- 
tudes towards it come into evidence with 
greater force. 

On the Eazumov estate the one who feared 
death most was Andrei Afanasievitch. Several 
times he had already imagined that he had all 
the symptoms of the epidemic and constantly 
took his own medicine. With this growing fear 
of the cholera upon him, the thought of the fate 
of his future son bothered him more and more 
often, and he made up his mind to arrange 
something in the event of his own death. 

One evening he even went so far as to call on 
the priest with the idea of consulting him, but 
it so happened that the priest immediately 
177 


178 


CHOLERA 


placed the bottle between them, the conversa- 
tion veered in quite a different direction and 
Andrei Afanasievitch totally forgot the original 
purpose of his visit. 

That day there had been three burials at the 
church and the priest was also excited and dis- 
turbed. Inured though he was to the sight of 
dead, the large number of them at once acted 
upon him terribly; at heart he, too, was afraid 
of death, not less than Andrei Afanasievitch. 

Danilo also feared death, but with him it 
showed differently. He only hated the feld- 
sher, and, wherever possible, made things un- 
pleasant for him. He would take away his 
horse, or refuse to give him lime or tar, or cur- 
tail the supply to the nurse of bread or pota- 
toes. All this he did gloomily, growling under 
his breath, avoiding any explanations even to 
the master. 

When mentioning the feldsher in conversa- 
tion with Andrei Afanasievitch, he never called 
him by his name; it was always ^‘your feld- 
sher,” or ‘‘your drunken devil,” “that one,” 
and he always found some legitimate cause for 
his arbitrary actions. 

“Seriezhka, go and harness ‘Skinny’ for that 
. . . devil,” he would order in an angry voice, 
and, having purposely given the laziest horse. 


CHOLERA 179 

he would look to it that there was no whip in 
the cart. 

‘ ‘ Give him a good horse and he will drive her 
to death, or she will be led away from him, the 
drunkard . . . the drunkard. ...” 

As a rule, the feldsher only got a common 
cart, sometimes even just a dung-cart. And if 
Seriezhka would run to the barn to fetch some 
straw to make a seat, Danilo would stop him, 
saying, ‘‘No need to; he isn’t made of sugar, 
won’t break on the way.” 

Gnidin, though, did not notice Danilo ’s ani- 
mosity towards him and treated him as ever, 
and as he treated everybody, kindly and trust- 
ingly. 

In his quarters, in the wing, he had his own 
little sphere and life, which was shared only by 
one other person, the sanitary nurse, Avdotia. 

She washed and cooked for him; she helped 
him in his work ; she it was who put him to bed 
when drunk. No one, except the patients, ever 
entered their abode contaminated by the plague, 
and therefore nobody on the estate knew of 
their intimacy. And it was difficult to even im- 
agine that such a thing could be ; she was so old 
and ugly, this Avdotia, so fat, her face all pock 
marked. 

Only the sick and dying loved her, for her 


180 


CHOLERA 


care, the softness of her movements, her kind 
and gentle voice, with which she consoled the 
suffering and alleviated their last moments. 
And when the sick one died, she would calmly 
and seriously go on to wash the corpse in the 
tub, dress it and place it with crossed hands on 
the bench under the ikon. 

This she had been doing before the cholera. 
When a dead body was to be ‘‘attended^’ and 
women were called in, Avdotia was always the 
first. She received no money for it. Occasion- 
ally, at the funeral feast a piece of rye-cake 
would be reserved for her, or at times she would 
get a glass of vodka, of which she was fond and 
which she never refused. 

Her relations with Sidor Ivanovitch hap- 
pened unexpectedly, one night after a very hard 
and strenuous day. 

During the day they had both been rubbing 
down a sick man, who in the end died in their 
hands. This was an armless old man, almost 
a pauper, who lived with his old woman at the 
end of the village in a dilapidated hut, without 
a yard and almost without a roof. 

A few years previously, when one of his 
arms had sickened off, the community took away 
his only piece of land and undertook to feed 
him ‘4n common.’’ This way he was always 


CHOLERA 181 

without bread and he and his wife took turns in 
begging for ‘‘crusts.’’ 

When he was caught by the cholera, he was 
alone in his hut and was a long time without 
help. When the big cramps came on he moaned 
with his poor might, and when the pain sub- 
sided he would go outside by the wall. 

Feeling worse and worse, he took out the wax 
candle from the ikon and got the matches ready 
to light it before dying. He would have liked, 
too, to take his last sacrament, and was think- 
ing of crawling to the neighbor’s to ask him to 
go for the priest, but at first he was stilL hesi- 
tating whether this was really death or not, and 
afterwards he became so weak he could no 
longer raise himself. 

In this condition he was found by his old wife, 
who immediately ran to the estate. 

Sidor Ivanovitch arrived together with Av- 
dotia, and when the old man died he left her 
there, himself going over to the next village 
where a whole family took ill. 

Two more died there that day. 

Gnidin returned home drunk and excited, 
with a bottle of vodka in his pocket. He or- 
dered Avdotia to get ready a samovar and 
treated her with the wine. She drank with him 
and, putting him to bed, took pity on him. 


Chapter VI 

Notwithstanding the terrors and ravages of 
the cholera, every day bringing new cases of 
cramps’’ and agonizing convulsions, with 
death lurking at every corner and new hil- 
locks appearing in the churchyard, life on the 
Eazumov estate flowed on as ever and from 
all appearances this terrible summer seemed 
hardly any different from other summers. 
Perhaps in the evening there was rather more 
singing in the servants’ room, and wilder and 
louder were Seriezhka ’s entertainments. 

Towards the end of July all the corn was har- 
vested and all that was left in the fields was 
the bristly stubble. The work was now cen- 
tered in the threshing barn. Mountains of 
sweetly smelling sheaves were already care- 
fully pressed together, and in the next barn the 
seeds were being prepared. 

In the distance were audible the jovial out- 
bursts and whistling of the driver, and all day 
long the thresher whined monotonously. 

182 


CHOLERA 


183 


Danilo, in an improvised apron made out of 
an old sack, was standing by the cylinder and 
fed in, while Andrei Afanasievitch, in white cap 
and blue glasses (his eyes pained him) rushed 
about the threshing barn giving orders. 

He was very anxious to clear his crop by the 
new method, which he had seen on the neighbor- 
ing estate, belonging to a German, named Hu- 
bert, but in no way could he accomplish it. 
Either the rope would be too short, or the horse 
would lose his footing, or the loop would not be 
tied properly and the sheaf would again roll 
down — whilst all the time the sheaves kept com- 
ing in from the carts. Much time was lost by 
all these interruptions and only after dinner 
did the work get into full swing and the baskets 
underneath begin to fill. 

Towards the evening Arina, the cook, sud- 
denly ran in, frightened and out of breath, and 
informed Andrei Afanasievitch that the sani- 
tary nurse was ^Mying.’^ 

‘^The feldsher has been away since the morn- 
ing,’’ she panted. went up to her to ask 
for some drops for my cough, and there she was 
on the floor lying on some straw, all blue, with 
terrible eyes. I ran to her and shouted Aunt 
Avdotia,’ Aunt Avdotia!’ but no sound; she 
seemed not to hear. Her eyes were just look- 


184 


CHOLERA 


ing straight in front of her. Perhaps she’s 
dead? Let’s go quick, master.” 

Andrei Afanasievitch’s eyes blinked nerv- 
ously. With unsteady hands he buttoned his 
rough short-coat and with hasty steps he went 
over to the wing. 

In front of him was the cook, who kept on re- 
peating her tale. 

Approaching the steps leading into the house, 
Andrei Afanasievitch slowed down and then 
stopped in indecision. 

‘^Come on, master,” urged Arina, looking 
back, ^‘she is just here in the large room. She 
may be still alive ; who knows ? ’ ’ 

‘‘Go and see,” replied Razumov, lighting a 
cigarette. 

“I am afraid to go alone. Why don’t you 
go?” 

“Go when you are told, you fool; what, is she 
going to bite you?” 

“Then you just stand in the door, sir,” 
begged Arina, as she slowly went over to where 
Avdotia lay. 

Coming up close to her, she looked into the 
fixed eyes of the dead woman, shook her cold 
arm and tiptoed back to the door. 

“She’s dead, sir; peace be with her,” she 
whispered and piously crossed herself. 


CHOLERA 185 

Andrei Afanasievitch also made a sign of the 
cross. 

“How was it no one heard how she diedT’ he 
asked, as they retreated their steps. “Perhaps 
some help could have been given her. I think I 
saw her this morning going for water.’’ 

“Indeed, sir, she was seen much later. At 
dinner, she was over to Maria Gavrilovna and 
complained of pains inside.” 

“Why did no one tell me of it?” 

“Impossible, sir. You were all day by the 
threshing and everybody was busy. Who could 
bother about her? We thought it was nothing, 
and now ... oh. Lord!” 

“Well, there is nothing to be done now. Go 
and see that she is removed,” concluded Andrei 
Afanasievitch, glancing at his watch, “and lock 
the door with the chain so that the dog does 
not get in,” he added, suddenly turning into his 
house with quick steps. 

Sidor Ivanovitch returned home late from his 
round. It was dark. Leaving the horse by the 
stable, he tottered on unsteady legs towards the 
wing. Getting into his small room, he com- 
menced to undress. 

“Any tea, Avdotia?” he asked loudly, ad- 
dressing the other side of the room. 

No reply. 


186 


CHOLERA 


‘‘Must be asleep/’ he reflected and stepped 
into the large room. 

On the floor, where Avdotia usually slept, was 
now lying a human body, covered with some- 
thing white, and at the head, with an unsteady 
light, flickered a thin wax candle stuck on a low 
stool. 

Sidor Ivanovitch came nearer. 

“Is it a corpse!” he wondered, as he uncov- 
ered the sheet. 

The thought that Avdotia could be dead was 
so far from his mind that he looked long before 
he recognized her. And even then he did not 
seem to understand what had happened. His 
clouded brain could in no way comprehend that 
the Avdotia, with whom he had spent the 
night just passed and who this very morning, 
strong and healthy, had brought him the horse 
to the porch — was now lying before him . . . 
dead! 

He bent close over her head, looked into the 
slits of her half-closed eyes, turned her stiff 
head and in a drunken voice was telling her 
something in a whisper. 

Then he burst into tears and embracing Av- 
dotia threw himself on the straw by her side. 

Falling, he upset the wax candle, which fell 
down and began to glow. 


CHOLERA 


187 


Gnidin came to himself when the fire had 
crept up to his head and a bright fire was in the 
room. Jumping to his feet, he began to run 
around the room, looking for water, and, finding 
none, went back to the room, attempted to drag 
^away the corpse, stumbled twice, then ran out 
on the porch and commenced to shout. 

Luckily the men had not turned in yet. His 
shouts were heard; the people came running 
and the fire was finally put out. 

Avdotia, half burned, with charred face and 
burned hair, was dressed in a new shroud and 
placed on the bench. 

Sidor Ivanovitch was sent to sleep in the serv- 
ants^ room. 


Chapter VII 

That night Andrei Afanasievitch’s sleep was 
disturbed. 

The nurse’s death and the fire had left such a 
strong impression upon him, that throughout 
the night he had horrible dreams, and waking 
several times in a cold sweat he would light the 
candle and rouse Masha. Growling lazily, she 
would open her sleepy eyes for a second, blink 
in the light unconsciously, and turning over on 
the other side would immediately resume her 
snoring. But even this gave him some courage. 

It was necessary for him to feel that here 
near him was a live, warm being, that could be 
roused and made to speak, and for the moment 
he would forget his fears, would move nearer 
towards her and fall off to sleep. 

Once, out of such a doze, he awoke with a hor- 
rible dream upon him. He saw himself in the 
last clutches of cholera with the feldsher work- 
ing in vain to keep him from dying. The bodily 
agony was almost unbearable, yet his suffering 
188 


CHOLERA 


189 


was chiefly in his mind. He wanted to live to 
look after his son, his son that would be his heir, 
and here he was dying and no provision had 
been made for him, nor his natural mother at 
his side. 

Struggling in bed, Andrei Afanasievitch 
gradually realized it was all a dream; that he 
was still alive and that he yet would have time 
to arrange matters for his son. Already that 
son was a very real person to him and in his 
heart there burned the fire of a great and ten- 
der love for him. 

And falling asleep again, he dreamt, not of 
cholera, nor of death, but of how he would edu- 
cate his son, and send him to a great university. 

Andrei Afanasievitch awoke late the next 
morning. Masha was already dressed and 
drinking tea. 

Summoning Danilo, he inquired if everything 
was ready for the nurse ’s funeral ; he also told 
him to go over to the priest and ask him to 
have everything ready. Andrei Afanasievitch 
had decided to bury Avdotia at his own expense 
and wanted to make the funeral grand and im- 
pressive. 

Danilo returned with the news that the priest 
was not home, but had gone to Pashutino, and 


190 


CHOLERA 


that four more coffins were outside the church, 
waiting for his return. 

‘‘We, too, shall have to wait. He may return 
to dinner,’’ added Danilo calmly, “and in the 
meantime I’ll put the boys to fan the rye; no 
use their standing about all day. ’ ’ 

Twelve and one o’clock had passed, but no 
sign of the priest, and no word from him either. 

At the door of the closed church, under the 
scorching sun, on the bare ground stood the 
coffins, hardly covered by cloths, under which 
were discernible the stiff contours of the head, 
the arms crossed on the chest, and the unnat- 
urally upright feet covered by woolen socks and 
old rags. 

On the steps leading into the church and lean- 
ing on the fence were several women and about 
half a dozen peasants. The women had cried 
their fill and at intervals only emitted deep 
sighs and sobs. The men were discussing the 
harvest. 

The loudest amongst the speakers was Ivan 
Sidorkov, who brought for burial his only son, 
his supporter. After digging the grave he was 
tired and had taken a glass of vodka, for cour- 
age. 

“What good is there in the master’s land?” 
he was saying in an excited voice. “You pay 


CHOLERA 


191 


him ten roubles for it and reap one of his acres, 
but nothing grows in it but weeds and garlic, 
that’s all. If he gave us some land nearer . . . 
but, not likely, that land he won’t give. . . . 
Too clever.” 

‘‘See what he wants,” said some one. 

“And why not? Look at his crop; eighteen 
ricks standing on each acre, six measures al- 
ready brought from the mills, whilst I only have 
five tiny ricks harvested and only three small 
measures to be ground. A quarter for seeding, 
and what have you left? You slave only for the 
cattle. At least there is a little straw and 
chaff. And now there won’t be even that; 
we have reaped to the bottom.” Pointing 
towards the coffins, he added, “Time for me to 
go there, too.” 

There was a lull in the conversation for a 
time. They were all quiet, each one thinking 
of his own sorrow; the women renewed their 
stifled sobbing. Seeing Andrei Afanasievitch 
approaching on his racing buggy, the peasants 
rose and bowed. 

“Well, hasn’t he arrived yet?” inquired Ra- 
zumov, reining in his horse. 

“Not yet, Andrei Afanasievitch, and we don’t 
know what to do. We can’t stay here over- 
night with the dead. We have sent a messenger 


192 


CHOLERA 


on a horse for him; he said he^d be back in no 
time, but he isn^t back yet.’’ 

‘‘What is the Father doing there?” 

“He went to visit the priest at Pashutino. 
He went over last night.” 

Andrei Afanasievitch sharply turned his 
horse around, pulled at the reins, and with a 
parting shout to the peasants to wait for him, 
headed for Pashutino. 

He drove his horse with all his might and 
within half an hour arrived at his destination. 


Chapter VIII 


The priest of Pashutino, Father^Ivan Gene- 
rozov, was an old friend of Andrei Afanasie- 
vitch’s. In former years, when there was no 
cholera, Generozov was fond of arranging fish- 
ing parties on the river, in which all the clergy 
around and the Razumov estate participated. 

The priests, their long coats tucked up, rowed 
the boats and gave instructions to the men, who 
pulled the net, keeping it straight, and with 
long poles frightened the fish out of the bushes 
near the banks. 

Whenever the net became entangled or would 
catch on any undergrowth, Uvar, the church 
reader from Pashutino, would dive into the 
river. He could remain under water an amaz- 
ingly long time, and his patience seemed inex- 
haustible. By the time the net was dragged up, 
Uvar would generally be quite blue and shiver- 
ing in his whole body. 

After the fishing, the workmen were treated 
to vodka on the bank and the sportsmen would 
193 


194 


CHOLERA 


return to Father Generozov^s summer tent. 
There, waiting until the mother cleaned the fish 
and prepared the ‘‘ukha,’’^ the guests would 
partake of ‘‘what the Lord sent,” and it was 
seldom that the company parted before day- 
break. 

Arriving at the clergyman’s house, Andrei 
Afanasievitch tied his horse to the porch and, 
without entering the house, walked right into 
the garden. 

He was seen from the distance and greeted 
joyously. 

“Come in, come in. It was good of you to 
come,” said Father Ivan, as he came -forward 
and stretched his hand out cordially. 

Andrei Afanasievitch bowed down for a bless- 
ing, then shook hands all round, and immedi- 
ately turned to Father Nicolai with the request 
to come back with him at once to Nikolskoie. 

He knew that there would be invitations to 
stay and join the party, but he had made up his 
mind on the way not even to sit down and he 
wanted to remain firm. 

“Wait a bit, old fellow; what’s the hurry 1 
Runs in once in a blue moon, and here he is off 
again. Sit down; take a drink, at least,” the 

1 Fish stew. 


CHOLERA 


195 


host was saying; ‘‘don’t offend an old friend. 
There is no hurry; we’ll manage to bury them 
all in good time. This is no fire.” 

“There was a fire, too, on my farm,” put in 
Andrei Afanasievitch, “and the wing was 
nearly burned down.” 

“Well, did you put it out!” asked Father 
Nicolai, anxiously. 

“It was put out; just a corpse was charred.” 

“Thanks to Heaven. And how did it hap- 
pen? Do tell us. Just take a sip of this tum- 
bler and a bite ; you can then go back. Mother, 
hand some cake to Andrei Afanasievitch. 
That ’s right. Good health ! ’ ’ 

Andrei Afanasievitch had eaten nothing since 
morning and the sight of the tasty pie tempted 
him. He approached the table “just for a sec- 
ond” and emptied the rather large glass of 
vodka. Some one filled it up again. Recount- 
ing to them recent occurrences, he did not notice 
how he drank a second and then another and 
still another glass, and only some time later 
happening to look at the clock he found to his 
dismay that it was 4 o’clock. 

He began to hurry. Father Ivan tried to 
hold him back, saying that Father Nicolai was 
not well and that the coffin could be placed in 
the church overnight ; but Andrei Afanasievitch 


196 


CHOLERA 


recollected the crowd that was waiting by the 
church and insisted that Father Nicolai should 
accompany him immediately. 

“And if Father Nicolai is unwell/’ he added, 
“I will have to trouble you, father, to come with 
me,” 

“Well, if you must go, I suppose there is 
nothing to be done,” agreed the host, as he filled 
their glasses for the parting. 

He saw them off to the buggy. They got in, 
the priest in front and Andrei Afanasievitch be- 
hind him, and started. 

Leaving the priest at the church, Andrei Afa- 
nasievitch hurried on to the estate to make ar- 
rangements for the removal of the dead nurse. 
The men, however, had gathered near the wing 
and announced that they could not carry the 
corpse. 

“We are afraid, Andrei Afanasievitch. Let 
the villagers carry it.” 

“What are you afraid of, you fools?” Ra- 
zumov flared up, “is she going to eat you, 
what?” 

“No, not that, but we are afraid of the cholera 
without the medicine.” 

‘ ‘ What medicine ? ’ ’ Andrei Afanasievitch 
did not yet grasp their meaning. 


CHOLERA 


197 


*‘What medicine? Why, to be sure, your 
medicine, sir, the peppery. There ’d be more 
courage then.’^ 

“Is that what you want, you wretched 
knaves ? You ’ll get it, but be quick. Seriezhka, 
run in there and tell Maria Gavrilovna to bring 
it out,” he ordered, and he started towards the 
house followed by the men. 

Filling the first glass, he was, according to 
custom, made to drink it himself, the master’s 
cup, and then the men in turn came up for their 
share. 

Andrei Afanasievitch arrived at church half 
drunk, unsteady on his legs and with a noise 
in his ears. 

The requiem was held for all the dead bodies 
at once, and they were all carried to the ceme- 
tery together. The priest walked in front with 
the cross, followed closely by the bearers with 
the nurse’s body, behind which walked Andrei 
Afanasievitch. The other coflSns followed, and 
behind them hurried the women with spades. 
Several boys closed the procession. 

In lowering Avdotia’s coffin, one of the ropes 
under it got entangled. No pulling or drawing 
could move it. 

“Leave it, throw the earth over as it is,” 
ordered Andrei Afanasievitch. “There’s no 


198 


CHOLERA 


use worrying over a piece of rope that only 
cost a few copeks.’’ 

‘‘How can you, Andrei Afanasievitch, waste 
such good material. We need the rope,^’ re- 
marked one of his men, Vassili. “Eh, there, 
Seriezhka, get down, 111 hold you.’’ 

Andrei Afanasievitch had no time to reply 
for Sereizhka, catching hold of the rope, had 
swiftly slipped down and was already with his 
feet on the cofiSn. 

Disentangling the rope, he lifted his head and 
shouted up, “Andrei Afanasievitch, if the 
cholera gets me, will you bury meT’ 

“Well bury you sure.” 

‘ ‘ With wine, too ?” 

“Yes, with wine.” 

“If death comes, will die,” cried Seriezhka, 
defiantly, and tapped the coffin with his foot. 

“All right, come out,” said Vassili, pressing 
his feet into the muddy clay and drawing up the 
rope. 

Seriezhka, jumping off the sharp edges of the 
sides, flew up like a bird. 

“Fill up,” he ordered, pulling out the rope 
and smiling. 

While the grave was being filled, Andrei 
Afanasievitch was standing aside and seemed to 
be thinking very hard about something. 


CHOLERA 


199 


‘‘Well, let us go, Andrei Af anasievitch, ^ ’ at 
last said Father Nicolai, coming up to him, “we 
have nothing more to do here.’’ 

“Just a minute. Father, let’s wait till the 
mound is evened. Now, hoys, livelier, throw 
some soft earth here, on the side, just here, 
that’s right.” 

“Well, is it all ready? Now let’s go hack. 
Gather up the spades, and don’t leave the rope 
behind. ’ ’ 

“Come, Father.” 

Coming up to the church, Andrei Afanasie- 
vitch seemed to have remembered something 
and he suddenly inquired : 

“When does fast begin?” 

“It begins next Saturday. Why are you 
asking?” Father Nicolai was surprised. 

“And what day is to-day?” 

“Wednesday.” 

“Tell me. Father, is it permissible to be 
married to-day?” 

“To-day! Yes, to-day, it’s permitted, but 
why do you ask it, Andrei Afanasievitch, I don’t 
understand you?” 

“Well, then. Father,” Andrei Afanasîëvitch 
spoke solemnly, “I would ask you not to lock 
the church. I wish to be married immediately. 
Seriezhka, run quickly home and tell Maria 


200 


CHOLERA 


Gavrilovna to come here right away, but tell 
her to hurry; say it’s most important. Let her 
come as she is, and not stop to change her 
clothes.” 

‘‘Wait a bit, Andrei Afanasievitch, you can’t 
do it like this, at once, without witnesses, with- 
out bans. Wait a fortnight and if you are still 
of the same mind, you can have your wedding 
by Assumption Day.” 

“I can’t wait, Father; I have decided, let it 
be so. We’ll find witnesses. Which of you 
boys can sign his name?” he addressed his men. 
“And no bans are necessary. Don’t you know 
me? And as to Masha, you christened her.” 

“Yes, that’s so, but still it would be better 
to put it off a bit; nothing will change until 
then.” 

“What if I get the cholera and before we can 
be married? Where will the child be? No, 
Father, it can’t be postponed. You must marry 
us at once, ’ ’ insisted Andrei Afanasievitch, see- 
ing that the priest was already wavering and 
inclining to give in. 

“I’ll go and see if there are any candles,” 
said Father Nicolai, going into the church. 
“Shall I call the choir?” he inquired. “We’ll 
at least call some neighbors,” he decided, as he 
ascended the steps, crossing himself. 


CHOLERA 


201 


Andrei Afanasievitch found a little comb in 
his pocket, straightened his hair and beard and 
took his place at the right side of the altar. In- 
formed by Seriezhka of the purpose for which 
she was summoned Masha soon arrived at the 
church, and in spite of Andrei Afanasievitch ^s 
instructions, she had found time to put on her 
gray best dress and scarf, and on her head she 
wore a kerchief. 

The witnesses for the bride and bridegroom, 
who signed the register, were : 

Danilo Agnev, peasant. 

Feldshee Sidoe Gnidin, non-commissioned 
officer of the reserve. 










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